


Half-Days and Holidays

by DarthNickels



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Love Letters, Missing Scene, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Shell Shock, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 12:17:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6284197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthNickels/pseuds/DarthNickels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scenes and some AUs, all Thomas related/focused </p><p>(1) pre-Series/s1, the mystery of Thomas' love letters consumes all of downstairs (2) s2, O'Brien gets a telegram from the War Office (3) Sergeant Barrow makes a scene, he and Captain Crawley have a heart-to-heart (4) s5 AU, Baxter appeals to Mrs. Hughes in an attempt to make Thomas see reason (5) pre-s4 Jimmy wants to Thomas' friend, but he still has questions about things (6) Phyllis Baxter arrives at Downton (7) Armistice Day, 1924: Mrs. Patmore and Thomas talk about cowardice (8) pre-series, O'Brien takes the new footman under her wing (9) Anna finally clues Daisy in (10) Armistice Day 1918, Thomas pays his respects to his fallen patient</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Love Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mystery of Thomas' love letters captivates all of downstairs

                That morning at breakfast, Carson was sorting through the post at a more… _leisurely_ pace than was absolutely necessary. If it had anything to do with the way Thomas was eyeing him, as though he were a starving dog and the letters in Carson’s hand were scraps of meat, well— he’d never tell.

                “Bills, bills,” he said. “Ah, here’s something—“ Thomas started forward, but Carson finished “—for _you_ , Mrs Hughes,” and Thomas was forced to sit back, seething. Carson handed the letter to her and she accepted it gratefully. “An advertisement—for a magazine that I hope no one _here_ is reading—“ Thomas sat stock still, not moving so much as a muscle, but he looked as though he might explode if left any longer.

                “And here—a letter for you, Tho—“ he barely had time to finish the syllable before the letter was snatched from his grasp. Carson started back, snorting indignantly, but Thomas paid him no mind, staring down at the letter in his hands as though it were encrusted with jewels.

                “Thomas! I’ll remind you to conduct yourself with _decorum_ or I shall—“

                “Apologies, Mr. Carson,” Thomas muttered, breezily, not sounding particularly sorry at all, and pushed his chair back from the table before taking off.

                “Thomas! Thomas, you are _not_ excused—!” Carson called after him, but it was to no avail. He settled back into his chair, with an irate huff.

                “I know that look,” Mrs. Patmore said, ominously. She leaned on the doorframe to the kitchen, staring after Thomas with an eyebrow raised.

                “What look?” Gwen asked, looking up from her porridge. Anna smiled to herself, mischievously.

                “Thomas has got a _sweetheart_ ,” she said, and both girls dissolved into a fit of giggles.

                “That’s enough of that now,” Mrs. Hughes said, sternly. “I’ll not have gossip at the breakfast table.” Anna and Gwen muttered twin apologies: “Sorry Mrs. Hughes”, before putting their heads together and whispering.

                “He’s not _allowed_ to have a sweetheart,” Carson grumbled. “He’s a footman!”

                “Steady on,” Mrs. Hughes chided, under her breath. “He’s young yet. Let him have a love letter or two. It might soften him up around the edges.”

                “It had _better_ not be more than two,” Carson groused, but he seemed content to let it drop.

* * *

 

                There _was_ more than two—far more. The letters came twice a week, sometimes three, and each time Thomas ran from the table to devour them in private. It wasn’t difficult to catch a glimpse of him in the hallways, back pressed against the wall, his eyes flying across the page as he greedily drank in the words, always with a big, silly grin on his face.

                No one had ever seen Thomas smile that way before—and outside of the letters, no one ever did.

                “Well, come on then,” Watson said as Thomas plucked another letter from Carson’s grasp at breakfast one morning. “Let’s hear it. What’s she got to say this time?”

“Who?” Thomas seemed mystified by the questions. Watson rolled his eyes.

“The mystery lady what’s captured your heart!”

                Thomas’ cheeks flushed red. “None of your business!” he snarled, with a level of ferocity that was unusual, even for him. Watson turned, stunned.

                “Mr. Carson! Did you hear the disrespectful way he’s addressing me?”

                “Thomas, don’t forget yourself,” Carson said, not looking up from his own correspondence. “That’s ‘mind your own business, _Mr. Watson’_ , if you please.”

                Thomas pursed his lips as laughter broke out around the table. He pushed back his chair and left, nearly crumpling his precious letter in his fist.

                “Oi! Oi! At least give us a name!” Watson called after him. Thomas didn’t even turn. Watson shook his head, exasperated. “Well, I hope she’s a nice girl, whoever she may be.”

                “I hope she _is_ a girl,” Mrs. Patmore muttered, just loud enough that Carson could hear it, before laying down a plate of toast and leaving. Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson exchanged dark looks.

                “They’ve all got London postmarks,” Carson murmured to Mrs. Hughes. “Who do you suppose he’s writing in _London_?”

                “Someone he met during the Season, I’d imagine.”

                “But _who_ —?”

                “Mr. Carson,” she said, firmly. “With all due respect, it’s probably best that we don’t know any more than that.”

* * *

 

                If the letters seemed to come with a regular frequency, Thomas seemed to be _writing_ them at an even more extraordinary rate. It wasn’t unusual to see him visit the post box three or more times a week, sometimes with multiple letters in hand. He shoved them in the box, hat pulled low over his eyes, and glanced about nervously from side to side—as if he was afraid he was being followed.

                “Maybe it’s not a sweetheart at all,” Taylor the chauffeur muttered darkly. “Maybe he’s a spy of some kind, sending reports to the papers—or the Germans.”

                “I highly doubt that, Mr. Taylor,” Carson sighed, but he would admit he wasn’t ready to rule it out completely. The mystery of the letters had consumed all of downstairs, from the meekest scullery maid to Lady Sybil’s governess. Carson wouldn’t have been surprised to find the gardeners chatting about it as well, if he ventured out onto the grounds.

 He would admit that he could understand the allure—after all, no one really _knew_ anything about Thomas Barrow. His accent was northern, his father had been a clockmaker, his reference had been the most glowing among all the applications—but that was it. Outside of those three facts he may as well have been a ghost, or perhaps simply sprung from the ground fully grown, wearing livery and carrying a tray, smirk fixed in place. The letters were a clue, a loose thread that, if tugged, would unravel the mystery of their most junior footman…

Or so the maids seemed to think.

                In their desperation they even appealed to Thomas’ only known confidant, Miss O’Brien, but her lips were firmly sealed.

                “Your post is your business; Thomas’ letters are his business. Why don’t you mind your own nest, and stop poking your nose where it doesn’t belong?” she dismissed them, coldly.

                “You’re just saying that because _you_ don’t know either,” Gwen muttered. O’Brien fixed her with a poisonous look, and Gwen hushed up after that.

* * *

 

                Time passed, and Thomas’ mystery correspondent seemed to lose interest. The number of letters dwindled to once a week, then once a fortnight, then down to once a month. More and more breakfast post sessions ended with the boy staring down into his porridge, pushing it back and forth with his spoon but not taking a bite. Mrs. Hughes looked at him worriedly, but just as she opened her mouth to say something that Mrs. Patmore called for Thomas’ help and he stood, heading for the kitchen.

                “I should prefer not to deal with a heartbroken footman mooning about the place,” Carson muttered.

                “I’m sure Thomas would prefer it if his heart stayed unbroken as well,” Mrs. Hughes chided him.

                If the waning stream of letters depressed Thomas, they were soon much too busy to find out. Their first and second footman quit one after the other, in quick succession, and it was madness trying to find replacements. There was a bizarre shortage of suitable applicants, and Carson found himself forced to make do with a farmer’s boy, fresh from the stables on a neighboring estate. Thomas relished his sudden promotion to first footman, lording it over poor William and the rest of the staff. Carson was loath to give him the position, but he couldn’t see any way around it—Thomas _was_ the only one suited for the job.

                Poor William! He seemed Thomas’ opposite in every way—fair haired where Thomas was dark, uncertain and clumsy where Thomas was sure, sweet and good-natured where Thomas was—well.

 _The less said about that,_ Carson thought, _the better_.

                “What’s that?” William asked one evening, craning to look over Thomas’ shoulder. Thomas whirled around, clutching a piece of paper to his chest.

                “Nothing! It’s nothing! Mind your business!”

                “It doesn’t _look_ like nothing,” William said, placidly. “Is that a letter from home? I was starting to think you never got any—”

                “What do you know, you stupid idiot?” Thomas snapped, and stalked off.

                Thomas was surly all through upstairs dinner that night, and nowhere to be seen afterwards. “I suppose he’s sulking,” William said, and told the table about the incident that occurred in their room.

                “William!” Daisy, the tiny new scullery maid, nearly squeaked with excitement. “That were a letter from his _sweetheart_!”

                “What’d it say?” Anna asked, leaning in. William frowned.

                “I didn’t _read_ it,” he said, indignant.

                “ _Why not_?!” Gwen nearly exploded.

                “You don’t go around reading a man’s private letters!” William said, shocked and appalled. “It’s not a _gentlemanly_ thing to do—“

                “Oh, stow it,” Anna said, irritably. “Thomas is no gentleman, and neither are you. He hasn’t done you a single good turn since the moment you came here.”

                “That’s no reason for me to read his letters—I probably don’t even want to, if they’re all _soppy_ ,” William said, wrinkling his nose in distaste. Gwen threw up her hands.

                “Now we’ll _never_ know!” she moaned.

* * *

 

                There was a Duke coming to Downton Abbey, and all of downstairs was on high alert—even if they didn’t care much personally, Carson stalking through the servant’s hall and breathing down everyone’s neck was enough to cause a general feeling of tension among the staff.

                Except, strangely enough, for Thomas.

                There was a queer serenity to his manner: he seemed to float above the rest of them, hovering a few inches of the ground during dinner services, taking Carson’s barked orders with a placid acceptance that made some of the maids whisper that he’d been dabbling in illicit substances.

                Even O’Brien found it strange. She cornered him outside during a smoke break, eyes narrowed.

                “What’re you up to? And why haven’t you told _me_?”

                “Up to something?” he asked, mildly. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” He exhaled, blowing a cloud of white smoke towards the sky. “It’s just a marvelous time to be alive, Miss O’Brien, that’s all.”

                “Marvelous, my eye,” O’Brien snorted. “You’re planning something.”

                “Always am,” Thomas replied. “Got a lot of irons in a lot of fires.”

                “Oh, is that so?” O’Brien took a drag of her cigarette, watching him warily. “Mind you don’t get burned.”

                Thomas smiled blandly at her, and would say nothing else.

* * *

 

                Thomas was white faced and silent the morning of the Duke’s departure. William kept giving him nervous sideways glances all throughout downstairs breakfast, as though he thought Thomas could burst into flames at any moment. The mood around the table was dreary to begin with—but Thomas seemed to be taking things especially hard.

                He confided quietly to Anna that Thomas had stormed past him with red-rimmed eyes, and that he’d heard what sounded like muffled crying all night long.

                Carson watched Thomas with a kind of dread all morning, nearly hovering over the footman as he fixed the Duke’s luggage to the back of the car. He wasn’t even sure what transgression he feared Thomas might commit, but he only relaxed when the door was shut at last and the Duke was safely away. In the confusion caused by Bates’ last-minute reprieve, he didn’t see Thomas standing in the doorway, dark shadows beneath his eyes made darker by fiery hatred blazing in his stare.

                “I’m trying to make room in my dresser,” Anna was saying at the table. “I dunno why I ever bought so much, I could never have used all this…”

                “Well, I’m all set, I’m afraid, I wouldn’t have any use for it,” Bates said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I suppose—well, what about you, Thomas?”

                 Thomas looked up from where he’d been listlessly staring into his cup. “What?” he asked, flatly.

                “Anna’s stationary,” Bates repeated, as though to a sweet but dense child. “She’s trying to give some of it away. I understand you’re quite the prolific letter writer—someone in London, I hear?”

                Thomas slammed his drink down, and tepid tea sloshed everywhere.

                “ _Piss off_ ,” he snarled.

                Bates looked genuinely taken aback.

                Thomas endured Carson and Mrs. Hughes’ scolding, staring down at the table with murder written on his face. Everyone else looked respectfully away—Thomas was being a prick, as usual, but the meaning of his outburst was clear enough. They understood that there would be no more letters from London.

                Though _why_ , exactly, no one could ever say.


	2. Telegram

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss O'Brien receives a telegram from the War Office

                “Telegram,” William announced soberly, returning from the back door to the breakfast table. “It’s for you, Miss O’Brien—“ O’Brien looked up, eyes sharp, and William nearly flinched. He hesitated, gingerly offering her the telegram:

 “—it’s from the War Office,” he finished, softly.

                All talk around the table stopped, and every head turned to stare at William and O’Brien. The blood drained from O’Brien’s face, but she took the telegram with steady hands. She turned it over, but stopped short of opening it—staring down at the grim missive as though she were seeing something miles away.

                “Miss O’Brien—“ Mrs. Hughes began, in her gentlest voice, “is that—?”

                “It’s Thomas. It’s just _got_ to be,” Daisy said, eyes wide. “Will you open it?”

                O’Brien seemed dazed. She continued to stare down at the telegram, as though it were a bomb. Then, the bell board rang, a harsh jangle cutting through the solemn silence of the moment. O’Brien started, as if suddenly awakened, and leapt to her feet.

                “ _Vultures_ ,” she snarled, “that’s what you lot are. Bloody _vultures_.” She turned on her heel, ignoring the cries of protest from the table, and went to the kitchen. She shoved the telegram into her dress and grabbed her ladyship’s tray, ignoring the eyes that followed her up the stairs.

                “Mr. Carson,” Anna asked, quietly. “Will we wear the black for Thomas?”

                Carson shut his eyes, suddenly looking very tired. “It won’t be mandatory,” he said, wearily, “but if it is the worst…then you may choose to do so.”

                “That’s generous of you,” Mrs. Hughes said, looking up at Carson with a sad smile.

                “If—if it’s come to that, then we’ll remember him as a man who gave his life for his country,” Carson said, somberly. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

                “It may not be so,” Mrs. Hughes said, but she didn’t sound encouraging. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

* * *

 

                “O’Brien?” Cora asked, as her maid lay down her tray. “Is something the matter? You look rather glum today.” O’Brien straightened, but didn’t answer. She reached in her dress and pulled out a folded piece of paper, clutching it with white-knuckled intensity.

                “I’ve had a telegram, Milady,” she said, her voice faint. “It’s—it’s from the war office.”

Cora tutted, sadly. “I’m sorry, O’Brien. I didn’t realize you had someone at the front.” 

“A few, Milady—two brothers, some cousins, an uncle and my nephew Alfred,” she looked distant as she named them off, staring somewhere just beside Cora’s face. “But you see—I’m not their next of kin. I’ll get a letter, if something happens, but the telegrams—I get the telegrams for Thomas.”

“Thomas?” Cora asked, surprised. “But what about his family? Surely—?”

O’Brien shook her head. “I get the telegrams for Thomas,” she said, flatly. It was a tone that brooked no argument and offered no explanation.

“I see,” Cora said, and feeling it was unwise to press. “What—what did it say?”

“Well, you see, your ladyship…if it’s not impertinent…” if was strange to see O’Brien at a loss for words. Cora sometimes thought the woman had a sharp comeback or witty rejoinder for everything under the sun. “I—I didn’t want to be alone, when I opened it.”

Cora’s face softened. “Please,” she said, gently. “Feel free to open it now.”

O’Brien did so, breaking the seal with shaking hands. She was white as a sheet.

“Go on,” Cora said, coaxingly. “What does it say?”

“We regret to inform you—“ O’Brien started, in a shaking voice, and Cora felt her heart sink. “—Corporal Thomas Barrow, RAMC, has been—“ she closed her eyes, her lips pressed together against a swell of emotion, and Cora feared the worst—

“ _Seriously wounded_ in action,” she finished, in a voice just above a whisper, and Cora slumped against her pillows with relief.

“Thank _God_ ,” she said, breathily. “What’s happened, did they say?”

“They didn’t specify, Milady—only that it was in the course of his duty in France—he’s being shipped here, new forwarding address to come.”

“What a relief,” Cora sighed. “I mean—poor Thomas, of course it’s just dreadful for him, but—“

“But he’s not dead,” O’Brien said. She opened her eyes, taking a deep breath and regaining her composure. She even managed a smile. “He’ll fight another day, Milady.”

“I’m sure that’s a huge weight off your mind,” Cora said, sympathetically. She longed of news for Matthew, it was true, but she dreaded receiving it in a war office telegram.

“It is, Milady, I—thank you,” O’Brien swallowed. “Thank you. I’ll just lay your things out—“

Cora took her breakfast quietly, trying to avert her eyes so that O’Brien could pretend her shaking hands were unnoticed. “You’ll tell Lady Sybil when you’re done here, won’t you?” Cora asked, after a long moment. “She feels very strongly about all the Downton staff at the front—she’ll want to know.”

“Of course, your Ladyship,” O’Brien said.

“And everyone downstairs, naturally—they must be worried sick.”

                O’Brien’s eyes flashed, like she wanted to disagree, but her only reply was a perfectly neutral “Naturally, Milady.”

                When O’Brien rounded the last flight of steps she found a small crowd waiting for her at the bottom—Anna must has told them she’d asked to speak privately with Lady Sybil. William was there, one or two hallboys, Ethel, Daisy—Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson rounded the corner, as if ready to lay down a scolding to the shirkers, but saw O’Brien and stopped short.

                “Well?” Carson demanded. For a moment, it seemed as though the whole house held its breath.

                “He’s been shot,” O’Brien said, with a sneer in her voice, “but he’s not died—not yet, anyhow.”

                There was a general murmur of relief. Mrs. Hughes pressed a hand to her heart, closing her eyes for a moment, as if offering a silent prayer. Carson raised an eyebrow.

                “Then _why_ did you feel the need to keep us in such suspense?”

                “It’s my telegram, Mr. Carson, and I’ll open it when I please,” she replied, pushing her way past the assembled crowd. “I don’t know any more then what I just told you, so if you could please—?”

                “Miss O’Brien?” Mrs. Hughes called. O’Brien turned, lifting her chin with an air of precautionary defiance.

                “We’re all so glad he’s safe now,” she said, softly. “Really, we are. You’ll tell us if there’s any more news?”

                O’Brien tilted her head, considering. “Maybe,” she said, finally, before taking off at a brisk pace, heels clicking.

                “She does have a heart,” Mrs. Hughes said, quietly, “somewhere in there, anyways.”

                “Are you so sure?” Carson asked.

                “I don’t think Thomas would have made her his next-of-kin if she didn’t,” Mrs. Hughes said with a shrug.


	3. Shell Shock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sergeant Barrow makes a scene, he and Captain Crawley have a heart-to-heart

                Anna was in a foul mood that night. She hardly spoke as she helped Mary into her dress, her usual sweetness overshadowed by a rather fierce scowl.

                “Anna? Is something wrong?” Mary asked. “I hope I haven’t said something untoward.”

                “Oh!” Anna looked almost surprised. “No, milady, not at all. I’m sorry to have—“

                Mary waved her hand, dismissively. “None of that. If something’s bothering you, you must tell me straight away.”

                Anna seemed hesitant, pursing her lips. “It’s only—“ she started, her hands working at the long row of buttons at the back of Mary’s dress. “It’s Sergeant Barrow, your ladyship. He’s been—well. It’s not for me to say.”

                “I assure you, military conventions do not hold in this room. You may speak freely,” Mary drawled, with a touch of amusement. Anna gave a small smile.

                “Well. He’s been a real pillock, begging your ladyship’s pardon.”

                Mary examined her face in the mirror, contemplating. “Thomas does seem to be enjoying his new position a bit more than is seemly.”

                “He’s a terror downstairs—even worse than when he was a footman. At least then we could put him in his place when he was nasty.”

                 “You’d think the army would have set him straight.”

“Well, they didn’t,” Anna replied, crossly. “He’s worse than ever.” She had finished the last of the buttons and Mary took a seat at her vanity, ready for the finishing touches to her hair. “He was really awful to Nina today,” Anna went on.

                “Who’s Nina?”

                “One of the new girls doing scut work in the kitchen. Thomas made her cry.”

                “What?” Mary turned in her chair, disrupting Anna’s work to face her. “Whatever for?”

                 “No reason at all! One minute he was sitting there with his cuppa, lounging about like lord of the manor, then he was _screaming_ at her—!”

* * *

 

                Anna had seen it happen just before she came up—she left the bootroom with Lady Mary’s evening heels in hand, noted Thomas sitting in the corner of the servant’s hall, lazily scanning the paper, when the back door slammed with an almighty crash—

                Thomas leapt to his feet like he’d been electrocuted. His cup fell from his fingers and smashed against the stone floor, spilling tea everywhere. He didn’t even look down at the mess he’d caused. He nearly staggered from the momentum of his jump, fighting for balance. He hunched over, grasping his hand—the injured one, the one he kept perpetually gloved—and staring at nothing in particular, his eyes wide—

                Then all hell broke loose.

                “WHO’S SLAMMING BLOODY DOORS?” Thomas roared. Anna froze—she didn’t think she’d ever heard Thomas raise his voice above a sardonic drawl before. “WHICH ONE OF YOU _IDIOTS_ IS SLAMMING BLOODY—?”

                Nina appeared, carrying what looked like a heavy crate in both arms. “Dreadful sorry, Sergeant Barrow!” she squeaked. “Me ‘ands were full and I—“

                “SO YOU ACTED LIKE A STUPID LITLE _BINT_ —“

                “Thomas!” Anna cried. Thomas rounded on her, nearly spitting “That’s Sergeant _fucking_ Barrow to you!” before stalking toward Nina, shaking with rage. She brought her crate up to her chest, cringing, as if to protect herself—

                “GOING AROUND LIKE YOU OWN THE PLACE, FUCKING IDIOT—“ he jabbed his finger in her face, just centimeters from actually touching her.

                “I didn’t mean to!” Nina cried. Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again—“

                “YOU BLOODY WELL BETTER NOT OR I’LL—“

                “Sergeant Barrow!” Mrs. Hughes swept in the room, keys jangling. “What on _Earth_ is going on here?!”

                Thomas rounded on Mrs. Hughes, breathing heavily. Anna noticed there was sweat beading on his brow. He seemed to realize, for the first time that he had drawn and audience—Mrs. Hughes was shadowed by the kitchen staff, fearfully lurking in the doorway, and one of the hallboys poking his head in from outside. His chest heaved with the force of his breathing.

                “Nothing,” he ground out, after an achingly long silence. “Nothing. Just—“ he swung back to Nina, who now had tears running down her face. “Don’t be so fucking _clumsy_ —“

                “Thomas Barrow!” Mrs. Hughes gasped, scandalized. “I don’t care if they promote you to _general_ ; I won’t have that kind of language in this house!” She was white-face with fury at the magnitude of disrespect to her household. “Do you hear me?” she pressed, drawing herself up.

                Thomas sneered, and started to say something—then looked back and forth from Nina to Anna to Mrs. Hughes and her growing crowd of supporters and thought better of it.

                “Just stay out of my way,” he snarled, shoving past them.  “And someone clean this mess up!” They heard his boots clomp on the stairs as he headed up to the back door—out to smoke and sulk in the courtyard, as usual.

* * *

 

                “I must say, that seems dreadfully _un_ usual,” Mary remarked. “Barrow doesn’t strike me as much of a shouter.”

                Anna paused. _How would you know?_ she was tempted to say, but she kept that thought to herself. “No, Milady. He’s not, usually.”

                “But if he’s treating you all so poorly downstairs, then I will simply have to have a word with him,” Mary decreed.

                “Oh, no, your ladyship—you mustn’t bother—“

                “Nonsense, I’m afraid I must. I know Thomas isn’t our man anymore, but the war is on the Continent, not in the kitchen. If he wants to shout he can go back to France and shout at the Germans—you all downstairs don’t deserve it.”

                “Thank you, Milady,” Anna murmured. She hoped Lady Mary wasn’t biting off more than she could chew. A war between Thomas and Lady Mary could cause just as many casualties as that terrible business on in Flanders.

* * *

 

                Anna needn’t have worried. The fateful clash between the sharpest tongues of upstairs and downstairs was not to be.

                Matthew dropped by for dinner the next day, having come in from London earlier than expected. He caught Mary throwing nasty looks Barrow’s way as he made his rounds from room to room.

                “You look rather fierce tonight,” Matthew joked. “If looks could kill I’d be very concerned for Sergeant Barrow.”

                “You should be concerned for him in any case,” Mary said, “we’re to do battle the moment I get him alone.”

                “Oh? Why?”

                Mary told him the whole story—or at least, as much as she’d gotten from Anna. A strange, unreadable look passed over Matthew’s face.

                “And that sort of thing isn’t usual for Barrow?”

                “No—he was always a bit of a bully downstairs, but smashing cups and screaming at maids is a new low.”

                “Huh,” Matthew looked—pensive. “Mary, do you think that perhaps—perhaps I could speak to him?”

                “You?” Mary looked over her glass, surprised. “Why?”

                “Well, for one, I outrank him,” Matthew pointed out. “Never send a civilian to do a captain’s job, as they say.” His joke fell flat—Mary looked distinctly unamused. “But really—you remember that I met Barrow in the trenches?”

                “Yes, I remember that letter—it was such a bizarre coincidence. Of all the men in all the miles of trenches…”

                “Indeed,” Matthew shifted, considering his next words carefully. “I think—we had quite a productive talk that day, Thomas and I. I may be able to bring him around with the minimal amount of fireworks.”

                “You think I intend to cause fireworks?”

                “I think you intend to give him such a tongue-lashing it makes the very foundations of the Abbey quake,” Matthew said, lightly. His smile didn’t quite meet his eyes. “And certainly, I won’t stop you—just let me have a crack at him first. If diplomacy doesn’t work then we’ll let him face the big guns.”

                “I’ve never been one for diplomacy,” Mary muttered, slightly put out. She pursed her lips for a moment, considering. “I can’t pretend to understand why you want to be old army chums with _Thomas_ , of all people.”

                “I must have my secrets,” Matthew tried to joke, but Mary simply looked at him, considering.

                “I suppose you must. Alright, go on then. But when he gives you nothing but grief for your efforts I will relish the chance to say I told you so.”

* * *

 

                “Sergeant?” Thomas leapt to his feet, hand snapping up to his brow on instinct. He’d been out of the trenches for half a year now, but the discipline had been drilled into him more deeply than even Carson could have managed.

                Thomas hated it.

                “Captain Crawley,” he said, coolly, when he realized who exactly was intruding on his smoke break. “Can I help you, sir?”

                “That’s hardly necessary,” Crawley said, waving his hand. “We’re not at the front now, and I’m not on duty.” Thomas relaxed, taking his seat in the corner of the yard furthest from the back door. He looked up at expectantly at Crawley, who seemed—awkward. He was bereft of his usual self-assured middle-class-and-climbing air.

                “Do you think—I could join you?” he asked. Thomas raised an eyebrow.

_What on earth do you want with the likes of me?_ He thought.

                “It’s still a free country,” he said aloud, gesturing to a nearby crate. “Jerry hasn’t won yet.”

                “No,” Crawley gave him a smile, but it seemed rather forced. “No, not yet.” He perched on the crate, looking decidedly out of place—a toff out of his natural habitat. Crawley licked his lips, nervously, and Thomas felt a sudden cold weight in his gut. There were few things men like Matthew Crawley ever wanted from men like Thomas Barrow, and none of them were good.

                “There’s no need to be nervous, Sergeant, I just want a quick word,” Crawley said, giving him a false but meant-to-be-pleasant smile. He looked at the cigarette in Thomas’ hand. “Do you—I know it’s rather inconsiderate of me, but do you suppose I could have one of those?”

                “Of course, sir.” Matthew took the proffered cigarette, holding it pinched between his thumb and forefinger like a cigar for a moment before mimicking Thomas’ loose grip two-finger grip. Thomas flicked open his lighter with an easy, practiced motion. The fire cast an eerie light on Crawley’s face as he inhaled, coming away with the end of his cigarette glowing red.

                “Your hand seems to be healing up nicely,” Crawley said. Thomas grimaced.

                “Only need a thumb to work a lighter, lucky enough—it’s the fingers that give me trouble.”

                “Shame,” Crawley seemed genuine in his sympathy. He took another drag, coughing a little—probably used to a finer grade of tobacco, even with the rationing on. He looked upwards, staring at the stars, and Thomas thought he might scream.

_Just get out with it!_

                “I didn’t just come out here to sponge your cigarettes, I’m afraid,” Crawley said, breaking the silence. Thomas curled his good hand into a fist to keep it from shaking. “You see—I heard something about you today.”

                Thomas curled his fingers, nervously. “What might that be?”

                Crawley studied his face with an unreadable expression: “You had a bit of a shout this afternoon.”

                Thomas actually turned, head tilting in confusion. “Sir?”

                “You were rather unkind too poor Nina.”

                Thomas blinked, just barely holding onto his neutral servant’s mask. “Not to be impertinent, _Sir_ , but I’m not sure how that concerns you.”             

                “You’re quite impertinent, but you’re also right. It doesn’t.”  Crawley didn’t quite meet his eyes, staring off after the smoke trailing from his cigarette. “I—Anna told Mary, and Mary told me. She only let the back door slam.”

                Thomas tensed. “She should know better than to—“ but Crawley held up a hand for quiet.

                “There are times when one can become—confused,” he said, slowly, as if his words were pregnant with meaning. “When one—listens for gunshots, even though one knows there aren’t any.”

                Thomas exhaled through his nose, two long billowing streams of smoke. “The war’s across the Channel. No one here thinks that Abbey’s going to come under attack.”

                “Yes but—“ Crawley ran a hand along his jaw, as though searching for the right words. “It—it can _seem_ that way.”

                Thomas pressed his lips together, fighting back the surge of nearly irrational anger that swelled within him. “You think I’m cracking. You think I’m like Looney Lang.”

                “Who is Lang?” Crawley asked, puzzled.

                “His Lordship’s new valet, the one—it doesn’t matter,” Thomas cut himself off, harshly. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not cracked like him.”

                Crawley exhaled, his expression unreadable. “That’s too bad,” he said, after a long moment. “Because, you see—I think I am.”

                Thomas’ head snapped up at that. He stared at Crawley, his cigarette dangling loosely form his mouth.

                “Sir?”

                “Two days ago, when I was arriving at Crawley House—there was a problem with the car coming from the station. Grant couldn’t get it to start, and when he did—well, the thing backfired with a noise like…” he trailed off. “Well. You know the sound.”

                Thomas took a long drag. “Indeed I do.”

                “It—it was the strangest thing. I felt—as if some battle-fever had come over me, a rush of adrenalin and such energy and I— couldn’t _bear_ to be in the space—in the car, among all the crowds at the train station…” Crawley trailed off. “It delayed our departure by an hour, and I’m afraid I was rather sharp with mother for some hours afterwards.”

                It was silent in the courtyard—quiet enough to hear the distant din of the kitchens inside.

“Why are you telling me this?” Thomas asked, after a long pause. His voice was lower and less certain than he would have liked.

                “Because…” Crawley looked him right in the eye, with that unearthly bright blue stare of his, “I think you may be the only one I can tell. Not to be—melodramatic, or anything, but…”     

                He twisted in his seat, staring back up at the house. Downton Abbey loomed over them, impassive walls that had stood unbreeched for centuries. “In there—there’s no room for that in a party. Not among gowns and settees and savories. They are all so—so composed, not a hair out of place, and I feel as though if I were to let one word slip I would—crack the crystal and upend the tables…” Crawley looked at Thomas, his eyes somewhere far away. “I should be able to do it. I _used_ to be able to do it. I could come back from France. Now—now I think I am there always.”

                “Lord Grantham was in South Africa,” Thomas said, shifting uneasily. “He might—“

                “Cousin Robert doesn’t know,” Crawley snapped. His pale eyes blazed in the dark. “There was no gas in South Africa, no tanks, no aeroplanes screaming overhead—“ he cut himself off, closing his eyes. “This was foolish of me. I should go. I’ve intruded on your only moment of peace—“

                “Wait.” Crawley was half-standing. He paused, looking at Thomas, before lowering himself back down onto his crate. Thomas didn’t immediately speak again, extracting another cigarette from his case and lighting it.

                “When—when I was shot,” he started, his words coming out a jumbled mess “there was—the sound it—“ splintering bone, dull tearing of flesh, the overwhelming _crack_ of the rifle (like the sky had torn in half) ringing in his ears—“I’ll never be free of that sound. I—I hear it, in the night. Before I drift off, I hear it and I’m awake again…”

                Thomas felt his whole face burn. Why had he said that? Stupid, _stupid_ , he just handed nearly all of his weaknesses right to Matthew fucking Crawley, why not tell him about the lighter over the trenches, why not just tell him everything about the Duke and the Turk and—

                “Yes,” Crawley said, shakily. Thomas looked up at him. The man looked desperately pale beneath a wayward thatch of gold hair. “Yes its—it’s quite like that.”

                Thomas wordlessly offered Crawley another cigarette and he took it, leaning back into the shadows of the courtyard. They sat in silence for a moment—both of them having bared more than they intended too. That sort of talk was fine for the trenches—a shell or a bullet cared very little for the intricate class mores that had governed all of their encounters until now— but here, at Downton, the gulf between them had sprung up once again.

                “I—I should be going. They’ll wonder where I’ve wandered off to,” Crawley said, finally. He stood, throwing his butt to the ground and grinding it beneath his heel. He looked down at Thomas, opened his mouth to say something, but sighed.

                “I was sent here to scold you, you know—and really, you should apologize to Nina. She didn’t start this war. She certainly didn’t shoot your hand—none of them did. It’s hardly fair to take it out on—”

                “Begging your pardon, sir,” Thomas cut him off, his voice icy, “but you are _not_ actually my superior here.”

                Crawley arched an eyebrow. “On your own head be it,” he said, simply, “but when heavier hands than mine come down, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

                Thomas blew out a long, contemptuous string of smoke, meeting Crawley’s ice-blue eyes with a challenge. Crawley sighed.

                “I suppose you won’t keep my secret, now that I’ve tried to chastise you?”

                _Depends, what are you willing to pay for my silence?_ Thomas thought.

                “Depends,” Thomas said aloud, “are you planin’ on keeping mine?”

                Crawley offered him a wry half-smile. “You could always explain to them, ask that they be more careful when—“

                “I could also tell them to call me Uncle Thomas and bring chocolates to Mrs. Patmore, but I _won’t_ ,” Thomas cut him off, rudely. “And I know damn well you’re not going to explain nothing to them upstairs neither.”

                “No,” Crawley said, looking sad. “No, I suppose I’m not.” He cast one look back up at the house, and then up at the stars. “Well. Goodnight, Sergeant Barrow. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

                “Captain—“ Thomas stood. He didn’t salute, but he did put a hand out. “Don’t…” he started, trailing off. For a moment he looked very, very young.

“Don’t go off and get yourself shot,” he finally settled on, with his usual brusqueness. “Dunno if this house could handle breaking in _another_ new heir.”

                Crawley seemed to take Thomas’ words in the spirit in which they were offered. “Be well, Sergeant,” he said, clasping his hand firmly. “And I mean it— leave the maids in peace.”

                Crawley turned and headed towards the back door. Once we went back inside things would go back to normal—Thomas to his station, Crawley to his, and it was unlikely their paths would cross again.  Both of them were going back to the war—Crawley to the shells and the gas, and Thomas to the human wreckage left in their wake.

_Crawley’s not so bad,_ Thomas thought to himself _. It would be better he were._

                Only the ones too cruel to die made it out of the trenches unscathed.


	4. Honey and Vinegar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> s5 AU, Baxter appeals to Mrs. Hughes in an attempt to make Thomas see reason

                “Mrs. Bates?” Baxter looked more worn than usual—her mouth was pinched in worry, and her eyes were drawn tight at the corners. “May I have a word?”

                Anna was reluctant to join her in the boot room, but shut the door behind her without complaint. “What is it, Miss Baxter?”

                “I’d like to ask you something,” she said, quietly. “As one lady’s maid to another.”

                Anna raised her eyebrows at that. She hadn’t expected Baxter, of all people, to invoke the confidence pact of their profession. “What is it?”

                “Please say you’ll keep it to yourself.” Anna paused. Baxter had been—a little aloof, during her time here, but Anna couldn’t blame her, with Thomas constantly swooping around her like a great black vulture. Now, though, she seemed genuinely distressed.

                “I will, of course I will. Are you…in trouble?”

                “Not me,” Baxter replied, then shut her mouth. “I mean—I wouldn’t come to you with this unless I thought it were dire. I hate to ask you, but…”

                “Go on, then.”

                 “Who…” Baxter started, hesitating. “Is there anyone in this house you think Thomas would listen to?”

                Anna blinked. She hadn’t been expecting _that_ question. “What do you mean?”

                “I mean—someone who could get through to him,” Baxter said. Her eyes flitted to the door, nervously. “Someone whose opinion he respects.”

                Anna shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you there, Miss Baxter. I don’t know there’s anyone on this earth who fits _that_ description,” she searched Baxter’s face, warily. “Why? What’s happened? Is Thomas in trouble?”

                Baxter pressed her lips together, looking down. “In a certain sense, I suppose.”

                “Is this—does this have something to do with how dreadful he looks these days?”

                Baxter only nodded.

                “What’s wrong with him? Is it serious?”

                Baxter shook her head—“please. It’s not my secret to tell.”

                Anna eyed her, warily. “Is he putting the house at risk?”

                “No, only himself.”

                She held her breath for a moment, then sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t know what to tell you. Tho—Mr. Barrow doesn’t care much for me or Mr. Bates. I don’t think he’d take anything less than direct order from Mr. Carson—“

                “Not Carson,” Baxter said, quickly. Anna raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

                “I suppose Jimmy could have helped us, but Lord knows where he is now,” she said, with a sigh. “Maybe even Lady Sibyl, God rest her soul.” She titled her head, thoughtfully. “He’s warmed to Lady Grantham these days…I don’t suppose—?”

                “I don’t want to worry her ladyship,” Baxter said, “I’d prefer not to involve the family, really.”

                “Lord Grantham has protected Thomas from his own foolishness before,” Anna said, “but I suppose you’re right—it’s best not to take drastic measures until you’ve no other choice.” She chewed her bottom lip, thinking it over.  “I suppose the only person left is Mrs. Hughes.”

                “Mrs. Hughes?” Baxter asked, warily.

                “She took up his cause during the trouble with Jimmy, back when there was trouble,” Anna said, thinking back. “And he used to make her laugh, a long time ago—before he got _really_ nasty.”

                “Can she keep a secret?”

                Anna tried her best to keep her expression neutral. “She’s trustworthy,” she said, flatly. “She’ll do the right thing.” She preferred to think as little of her experience with Mrs. Hughes’ secret-keeping as she could.

                “Thank you, Anna—I mean it. I know—I know I can’t ask you to keep this to yourself on his behalf, when he’s been—“

                Anna shook her head, with a small smile. “I don’t much care for Mr. Barrow, it’s true, but I’m not one to turn my back on a fellow lady’s maid in need.” Baxter looked relieved at that. “Just tell me if it doesn’t get sorted out, alright?”

                Baxter’s face broke into a smile: “It’s a deal.”

* * *

 

                “Is there a problem, Miss Baxter?”

                Baxter shut the door quietly behind her, briefly closing her eyes for strength. “I’m afraid so, Mrs. Hughes.”

                “Is it to do with the police--?”

                “No, no. It’s got very little to do with me at all.” Baxter settled herself in the chair in front of Mrs. Hughes’ desk, nervously. “You see—it’s Thomas. You’ve noticed he looks…rather ill, lately?”

                “He looks as though he’s one foot in the grave.” Mrs. Hughes answered, frankly.

                “Yes. Well—you see, I believe I know why…”

                Mrs. Hughes felt her eyebrows creep higher and higher up her forehead, until they threatened to disappear into her hair. “You think this is all because Thomas has been _poisoning_ himself?”

                “Yes—?”

                “In some— _fool_ attempt to make him fancy girls?”

                “That’s about the size of it,” Baxter confirmed, wincing.

                “Of all the crazy schemes—“ Mrs. Hughes put her fingers to her temples, trying to massage away the oncoming migraine. “For pity’s sake, _why_?”

                “It’s not easy for him, Mrs. Hughes,” Baxter said, with quiet defiance. “He’s been awful, but there are some things even he doesn’t deserve.”

                “No, you’re right. Of course you’re right.” Mrs. Hughes sighed. “But why _now_?”

                Baxter hesitated. “I think…” she trailed off, weighing whether or not she should divulge any more secrets. “I think Thomas is lonely. He’s realized now, that Jimmy’s gone, that it was never going to… _happen_ , between them, and now his only friend in the house is gone as well.”

                “He wouldn’t be so short of friends if he weren’t the meanest man to walk the Earth,” Mrs. Hughes muttered. 

                “No one knows that better than me,” Baxter agreed. “But…he won’t see _reason_. He’s killing himself, Mrs. Hughes. I’m afraid it’ll go too far and—“

                “None of us wants that, Miss Baxter, I can assure you,” Mrs. Hughes released a long, slow breath, mulling it over. “Why have you come to me?”

                “He won’t listen to me,” Baxter said, ruefully. “I don’t know that there’s anyone on Earth he’ll listen to—but Anna said you might get through to him.”

                “I don’t think Thomas Barrow holds me in any particular regard,” Mrs. Hughes snorted. But then she was struck by a memory—how easy it had been to lead a sobbing Thomas out of the courtyard and into her sitting room, as if he wasn’t a grown man standing a full head taller than her, the way he’d collapsed into her chair and told her everything with hardly any prompting…

                “She told me you helped him once,” Baxter said, softly. “May—may I ask why?”

                Mrs. Hughes sat back her in her chair, releasing a long, slow breath. “You have history with Mr. Barrow, do you not?”

                Phyllis nodded, cautiously. “I was close with his sister.”

                “Then you would know even better than I do that that there was a time when he wasn’t so cruel to his fellow man.”

                Phyllis gave a weak smile. “I do.”

                “It was—gracious, it was nearly fifteen years ago that Thomas first came to this house,” Mrs. Hughes said, thinking back. “He was a quiet boy then—not kind, certainly not sweet, but he kept to himself. He used to smile, though, back in those days— _really_ smile, not going about smirking like a villain in a penny dreadful. He used to be eager—and he used to tease me, cheeky beggar.” Mrs. Hughes smiled at the memory. “I should never have allowed it, but he was so forward— I couldn’t help but laugh.”

                “Why’d it stop?” Baxter asked.

                “I couldn’t tell you. The sourness crept in slowly enough—he fell in with Miss O’Brien, and that certainly couldn’t have helped, but it wasn’t the cause of it. They were kindred souls, in their own way, but what exactly they shared I couldn’t tell you—nor would I want to know!” Mrs. Hughes sighed. “I suppose I could have intervened—that I _should_ have intervened, really, given how things got out of hand afterwards. But it’s Mr. Carson’s job to look after the male staff—heaven knows I’ve got my hands full with things as it is!” She shook her head, “and it’s certainly not my job to be anyone’s _mother_.”

                “Certainly not,” Phyllis murmured. Mrs. Hughes studied her face carefully.

                “I suppose you actually did know her?” she asked. “Thomas’ mother?”

                Phyllis shook her head. “She died young—young enough that all of Thomas’ memories of her are fond, at least.” Mrs. Hughes raised an eyebrow at that.

                “She was a God-fearing woman, same as her husband,” Phyllis elaborated. “He wasn’t—a cruel man, but he was stern. And when he found out about his son—well.”

                “I see,” Mrs. Hughes was surprised to feel something in her chest constrict—before, she would never have believed she’d feel that way for _Thomas_. But now she imagined he cried the same way as a child as he had in the courtyard that night.

Elsie Hughes had no children of her own, but she’d raised seven of her twelve siblings after her mother had passed, then so many cousins and nieces and nephews she stopped counting— so she knew a thing or two about sparing the rod when the occasion called for it. “So there’s no one left who can talk any sense into him.”

                “I’m hoping you can.”

                Elsie sighed. “I won’t make any promises—if it’s not interfering with his work, then there’s nothing _I_ can do—and if it does we’ll just have to pass him along to Mr. Carson.”

                “It won’t come to that,” Phyllis said, firmly.

                “I hope not,” Elsie said, refusing to even consider how dreadfully _that_ encounter would go. “I really hope it doesn’t.”

* * *

 

                “You wanted to see me, Mrs. Hughes?”

Thomas sounded as though he didn’t even have the strength to be properly annoyed with her. Else schooled her face, trying to hide her alarm at just how awful he looked—she understood now why Baxter was at her wit’s end.

                “I did. Come in, Mr. Barrow, have a seat.” She patted the chair, invitingly, but Thomas didn’t move from the door, eyeing her with suspicion. “Mr. Barrow, please—you aren’t in any trouble. Shut the door behind you, and sit down before you fall down.”

                Thomas did so with extreme reluctance, sliding into the chair with a strange reticence. Elsie busied herself pouring him a cup of tea, which he took gingerly, as though it might have been poison.

He didn’t drink.

                “I just wanted to take a moment to check up with you,” she started, tactfully. “To see how things are going.”

                “They’re going well,” Thomas said, flatly. “Except I am, of course, very busy, so if I could just—“

                “Are you _sure_ you’re well?” she asked him, her voice pregnant with meaning.

                “Quite sure, Mrs. Hughes,” he bit out. Elsie sighed.

                “I really wish you’d just come out and tell me. No one believes that you’re feeling well. “

                “That’s a shame, because not only am I perfectly fine, I am better than ever,” Thomas ground out. There was a kind of dull fire in his eyes, an expression that made Elsie very, very uneasy—more so than any of the smirks ever had. She sighed. 

                “I had hoped I wouldn’t have to do it like this,” she said, quietly. “But it’s pointless for you to lie to me. Miss Baxter has told me everything.”

                Thomas opened his mouth, gaping like a fish for a moment, before snapping it shut again. His fingers curled around his teacup. “She’s lying.”

                Elsie arched an eyebrow. “Has that ever worked?”

                “She had no right,” Thomas seethed. “It’s not her business, and it’s not yours.”

                “It _is_ my business, Mr. Barrow,” Elsie said, firmly. “When senior members of staff begin poisoning themselves, it is very much my business.”

                “It’s not poison,” he sneered, but there was a note of desperation to it. “It’s _science_ —“

                This was bad. Elsie clearly had her work cut out for her here. There had been horses, on her Da’s farm—it had been ages since she’d worked with them, but she remembered how to come at a spooked beast—slowly, hands lowered, with soothing tones.

                “Will you tell me why you’re doing it?” she asked, softly. “You’ve never cared much before.”

                Thomas seemed disarmed by this line of questioning. Some of the tension left his shoulders, but he looked away from her—not quite meeting her eyes. “You’re wrong,” he said, quietly.

                “Oh?”

                “I know—“ he swallowed hard. “I know what you all think of me. I’m not stupid.”

                “No one thinks you are,” she said, “if there have been—difficulties, in the past, it’s not because—“

                “It’s not, is it?” Thomas sneered, “the _difficulty_ with Jimmy, that’s not because of—what I am? Me always bein’ passed over for valet, bringing in one-legged thieves and the likes of Mosely but not _me_ —”

                “That’s quite enough of that,” Elsie cut in, sharply. “You know perfectly well that those positions weren’t ever entitled to you, Mr. Barrow. Self-pity does not suit you.”

                “No. It doesn’t,” he said, standing abruptly. “That’s why I’m taking my life into my own hands, Mrs. Hughes.”

                “See reason!” she cried. “You can’t go on like this, you’ll drop dead in a week—“

                “Maybe I will!” Thomas snarled. “Maybe it’s better than living alone!”

                “You don’t mean that,” Elsie said, a note of pity creeping into her voice. “If you’re just _lonely_ , then surely—“

                “I don’t have to listen to this,” Thomas cut her off. “You don’t have any say in this. I’m leaving—“ he made to turn, but Elsie’s words stopped him dead in his tracks:

                “If you walk out that door, I’ll go find Mr. Carson and tell him what you’ve been doing.”

                Thomas couldn’t get any paler, but Elsie felt she was watching the last of his defiance drain out of him. “You can’t,” he said, his voice shaking.

                “I certainly can. By all rights _he_ should be giving you this talk—“ 

                “No!” the word slipped out of Thomas’ mouth and he pressed his lips together, as though to keep from letting anything else slide out. There was something wild in his eyes, like an animal in a trap. Elsie stood, taking slow, cautious steps towards Thomas.

                “Why would it be so bad if Mr. Carson knew?” she asked, quietly. “Surely you were going to tell all of us, at the—conclusion, of this treatment?”

                Thomas swallowed hard, looking at the ground. “It—it doesn’t matter. He—he would probably approve.”

                “I highly doubt that Mr. Carson would approve of you nearly killing yourself in some crazy scheme—“

                “Why’s it crazy, to want—to want to be liked?” he demanded, his lip curling up in an imitation of a sneer—but there was no real feeling behind it. “To want the same things as everyone else?”

                “It’s not,” Elsie said, “but Thomas— you can’t change this about yourself. It just can’t be done. And frankly…” she took a deep breath. “None of us particularly want you to.” Thomas stiffened.

                “That’s a _lie_ ,” he breathed, fists clenching.

                “Oh? Is it now? Look at my face and call me a liar,” Elsie commanded, sharply. Thomas flicked his eyes upwards, but couldn’t hold her gaze. “Miss Baxter doesn’t want you to change. I don’t want you to change. Mr. Carson—“

                “Yes he does!” Thomas exploded. It seemed as though she’d finally touched a nerve. “Yes he does! He told me so! He—“ Thomas broke off, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. He was very, very close to tears. Elsie felt her stomach drop. Charles Carson wasn’t a hard man, but he’d never had much patience for Thomas, even when he deserved it—and certain not when he didn’t. She drew closer, bridging the last of the space between her and Thomas.

                “What did he say?” she asked, softly. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it like that…”

                “Yes he did,” Thomas said, his breath coming rapidly in an attempt to stave off sobs. “He—he said—“

                Elsie put a hand on Thomas’ arm, rubbing small circles with her thumb. “It’s alright,” she soothed, “you can tell me.”

                “H-he said I was _foul_ ,” Thomas sobbed, and the dam burst. Elsie took him in her arms, pressing his face against her shoulder as he wailed into her dress:

                “He said—I should—be— _horsewhipped_ —an’—an’—“

                Oh _no_. She cringed internally—she could imagine exactly how that conversation had gone, now. Mr. Carson saw himself as the last bulwark of morality in the new century; she should have known he wouldn’t have left his prejudices out of the equation when judging Thomas’ transgressions. He didn’t realize how sharp his words could be, sometimes, didn’t realize that he forgot their bite long before anyone else had.

  For now, all she could do was shush Thomas, petting the back of his head, though his hair was stiff with pomade. “He shouldn’t have said that. That wasn’t kind.”

                “But—its— _true_ —“ he hiccupped. Elsie bit her lip—this was worse than she’d thought.

                “No,” she said firmly. She drew back for a moment, raising Thomas’ chin so she could meet his eyes.

                “It’s not true. He shouldn’t have said it. _None_ of us think that.”

                Thomas fought for control and lost. He started to cry again, raising a hand to wipe his nose with the back of his gloved hand. Mrs. Hughes wrapped her arms around his chest and he reciprocated, drawing her into a bone-crushing embrace. Even through his livery, she could tell he was burning with fever-- being burned from the inside by some towering blaze. It was as though the fire that sustained his defiance had grown out of control and threatened to consume him utterly.

                Thomas was more than desperately ill-- it seemed he was sick at heart. 

                 She wasn’t sure how long they stood like that, Thomas’ tears dampening the fabric of her dress while she murmured nonsensical but soothing things in his ear. She only drew away when the sobs slowed to hiccups.

                “Here’s what we’ll do,” she said, gently. “I’m going to tell Mr. Carson you’ve been taken ill—“ Thomas made a small noise of protest, but she quickly reassured him: “I _won’t_ mention the specifics. We’re going to go up to your room, and you’re going to show me all the things you’ve been injecting yourself with. I’m going to take them, and _you’re_ going to have a nice lie down. Then you and Miss Baxter will go see Dr. Clarkson in the morning.”

                She expected some resistance, but Thomas just mumbled a small, miserable, “yes, Mrs. Hughes.”

                “That’s right. Good lad, “she said, and Thomas favored her with a weak, wavering smile. She fumbled in her pocket, withdrawing her handkerchief and offering to Thomas. He wiped his face, fighting down the last of his hiccups.

                “When you feel better, we’ll have another talk,” she said, softly. “And we’ll make some changes to the way things are around here you and me both. Are we agreed?”

                “Yes, Mrs. Hughes,” he answered, meekly. It was surreal, to see Thomas this way— docile and accommodating as a brand-new scullery maid. Elsie wondered whether or not she should have been using a soft touch all along.

                _No time to linger on it now_ , she thought to herself. She placed a hand in the small of Thomas’ back, ushering him into the hallway.

* * *

 

                Baxter was waiting for her, on the ladies’ side of the attics, wringing her hands fretfully. “How was it?” she asked. “Did you—?”

                “He’s resting now,” Mrs. Hughes replied. She held up Thomas’ wooden box. “He didn’t much like me going through his things, but this is all of it, I’m sure.” Baxter visibly sagged in relief.

                “And he won’t do it anymore--?”

                “I’m going downstairs to ring Dr. Clarkson and make an appointment for him tomorrow,” Mrs. Hughes said. “I trust you’ll be willing to escort him there?”

                “Of course,” Baxter said, “I can’t tell you how grateful I am, for getting through to him—“ but Elsie cut her off, shaking her head.

                “Don’t thank me,” she said, sadly. “I should have seen this coming from _miles_ away.”  She sighed, looking down at the box in her hands. “I sometimes forget that Thomas is one of the last of the old guard—that he’s got no one outside the house, and precious few friends within.”

                “I’d like to be his friend, if he would let me,” Baxter said, softly. “And—if it’s not impertinent of me to say—you might be, too?”  

                Elsie smiled. “Two more than yesterday,” she said, lightly. “And we can only go up from there.”


	5. Private Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jimmy likes being Thomas' friend, but he still has questions about...things

                Being friends with Thomas was easier than Jimmy would have thought.

                The days went by and they started to branch out from reading the paper or one of Thomas’ hard-beaten paperbacks—sometimes they played draughts, or cards, or Jimmy helped Thomas go over the ledgers so he didn’t get _too_ far behind; but mostly they just talked. Jimmy brought news from the house and the village, idle gossip and chatter, while Thomas recounted some stories from way back, when he was a junior footman (third of three) and the world was a simpler place. It was easy, just talking like this—it almost felt like Thomas wasn’t actually his boss, or that they hadn’t been dancing around each other for the better part of eight months.

                It was so easy that Jimmy nearly forgot _why_ he hadn’t considered being Thomas’ friend before the fair; why he wouldn’t have considered it even if there hadn’t been The Incident hanging over them like a dark cloud—that thing that lingered between him and Thomas, between Thomas and everyone who knew about it.  

                But Jimmy didn’t forget about it, and it gnawed at him. He found himself watching Thomas, studying him, looking for—for what? A sign? A hint? A secret tattoo, a birthmark, a cluster of freckles spelling out the word NANCY on his chest?

 _I mean_ , he thought to himself, _you couldn’t tell by looking_. Somehow, that thought stayed with him, like a splinter beneath the skin, nagging at him.

“Can I ask you a question?” Jimmy asked, one day, before he could take it back.              

                “I think you just did.” Thomas said mildly, considering his next move on the draughts board.

                “No, I mean really.” Jimmy licked his lips, nervously, no quite believing his own audacity. “Can I—ask you something private?”

                Thomas’ expression became guarded. “Like what?”

                “Like…” Jimmy trailed off. “Do you—do you _really_ not like girls?”

                Thomas seemed to crumple, and Jimmy regretted letting his curiosity get the better of him. “What’s it to you?” Thomas asked, bitterly, not quite meeting Jimmy’s eyes.

                “Not anything, really.” Jimmy shifted in his chair. “I just—I just wondered.”

                Thomas was quiet for a long time. Jimmy was about to stand up, apologize, admit this had been a mistake and leave when Thomas answered, so low Jimmy had trouble hearing him: “No.”

                “Not at all?”

                Thomas gave him an unimpressed look in lieu of answer.

                “But—but _why_ not?” the words tumbled out of Jimmy’s mouth.

                Thomas’ eyes flashed angrily. “If I knew that—“ he started, then shook his head. “I asked myself that before more—more times than you could ever have imagined. I just—don’t.” He looked down at his lap, where his hands shook slightly. “I just don’t.”

                Jimmy nodded, slowly, as though he understood—but he didn’t.

                “So…” he said trailing off. “Then—then you like…” he somehow couldn’t bring himself to say the word _men_. It caught in his throat like a fishbone. “You go the other way.”

                “You knew _that_ already,” Thomas said, bitterly. “The whole bloody _house_ knows it now.”

                Jimmy shrugged, apologetically. They certainly did. It wasn’t his fault, technically—he’d more or less kept his mouth shut on the particulars. After all, he certainly hadn’t wanted the news that he’d been kissed by a _man_ to get around! But somehow, because he’d made a scene, the story _had_ gotten around, in various level of completeness. Jimmy had gotten the ribbing he’d feared, but it seemed to have come and gone—sometime the lads in the village called him “pretty boy”, but they’d done that before the Incident as well, so it seemed a moot point.

                Thomas had a much more difficult time of it. Jimmy got the sense that there was no love lost between old Carson and Thomas from the moment he’d arrived, but things had been absolutely frosty between them in Thomas’ first days as under-butler. They never stood too close, or talked any longer than was absolutely necessary, and most meals passed with Thomas saying so much a word until recently.  He’d push back from the table and head up early, past the maids and hallboys at the end of the table—who, naturally, put their heads together and started whispering furiously before he was even gone. Back then, Jimmy hadn’t thought anything of it.

                It wasn’t until after the fair, when Dr. Clarkson and Mrs. Crawley were helping Thomas limp home and Jimmy overheard a muttered “he had _that_ coming, prancing around like the fairy queen” that he started to feel a tendril of guilt curl around his thoughts where Thomas was concerned.

                “Yeah,” Jimmy finally said, realizing the silence had one on fair too long. “But— but I mean…” he rubbed the back of his head, awkwardly. “But it’s not so bad, yeah? I mean—you’re not fired—“

                “No thanks to you,” Thomas said, matter-of-factly. Jimmy startled, surprised, as if Thomas had struck him. Thomas’ eyes went wide.

                “I didn’t mean that,” he said, quickly. “You—you had every right—“ he tried to move, but stopped, clutching his ribs.

                “No,” Jimmy said. “That’s—that’s fair.” He sat back in his chair, nodding his head. “That’s…what happened.”

                “This mouth of mine,” Thomas said, with a smile—but he expression was more bitter than ever. “I can’t—sometimes I just _say_ things…”

                 “They’re true things,” Jimmy said, with a shrug. “It’s—not your fault people don’t like to hear that.”

                Thomas looked at him, mouth open in a smile but still clearly confused. He laughed, shallowly, to protect his ribs, but more from disbelief than humor.

                “I’ve never heard anyone put it like _that_ before,” he said.

                “You know me,” Jimmy said, tipping his chair back and placing his hand behind his head. “I’ve got keen insight, and all that. The sage of Downton, they call me.”

                “They call you no such thing. Get your feet off my bed!” Thomas said, but he was smiling now—really smiling, in a way Jimmy hadn’t seen much of even before the Incident.

                Neither one of them could remember whose turn it was in draughts, but Jimmy had to head down soon for upstairs tea anyways. He was glad to see Thomas still smiling as he left—glad to know that his too-forward line of questioning had damaged their new, still fragile friendship.

                But he was still curious.

* * *

 

                Two days later, they were talking again—Thomas was chuckling as Jimmy recounted Daisy’s lasted ill-fated attempt to get Alfred to notice she was mad for him.

                “Poor girl,” Thomas was saying, “She’s always been daft, but I think she’s just desperate now. She’s been sweet on every man that walked through the kitchen door, I think—even _me_.”

                “You?” Jimmy said, astounded.

                “Is it so hard to believe?” Thomas said, with a debonair raise of his eyebrow. The effect was ruined by the black eye and split skin on his face. “’Course, this was ages ago, before the war—but I was quite a looker, back in my day.”

                “Stop,” Jimmy said, rolling his eyes. “You’re too full of yourself by half.” Thomas laughed.

                “ _Alfred_ , though,” he said, shaking his head. “Whatever does she see in _him_?”

                “He’s tall,” Jimmy said, with a shrug. “Girls like that.” Thomas snorted.

                “There’s tall and then there’s _giant_ ,” he said, with a sneer. “She’d have to stand on a step ladder every time she wanted a kiss!”

                Jimmy paused. He’d never really considered the mechanics of that particular situation—but apparently Thomas had?

                “So you think it’ll never happen,” he said, testing the waters.

                “Oh, it could very well happen,” Thomas said, shaking his head, “but I couldn’t tell you _why_. Whatever does she see in him?’

                “Dunno,”Jimmy shrugged. He and Thomas sat in companionable silence for a moment, while Jimmy tried to think of the most delicate way to phrase his question.

“You never saw anything in him, then?” Jimmy asked, trying to be casual. Thomas’ eyes flashed, and he tensed.

“Not sure what you mean,” he said, trying to match jimmy’s off-the-cuff air and failing even more miserably.

                “I mean—“ Jimmy glanced at the open door (a necessity they both agreed on, for propriety’s sake) and leaned in, lowering his voice “did you ever—“ and again, lowering to a near whisper: “ever _fancy_ him?”

                Thomas turned and looked as the wall, as if to keep Jimmy from seeing his thunderous expression. He took a deep breath, nostrils flaring. “Alfred can’t decide if I should rot in prison or just go straight to burning in hell,” he said, darkly. “So— no. I don’t— _fancy_ him— in the slightest.”

                Jimmy winced. “He doesn’t think that—“

                Thomas cut him off with a disbelieving look. Jimmy shrugged, uncomfortably.

                “He doesn’t talk about it anymore,” he amended. “Not for ages.”

                “Well, isn’t that _nice_ ,” Thomas said, with biting sarcasm. Jimmy knew he shouldn’t push any further—the subject was a minefield, for Thomas and him both.

                It wouldn’t be the first time he’d done something he knew he shouldn’t.

                “So, is that the only reason you don’t like him?” Jimmy asked, prying further. “Or just cause he’s too tall and ginger—?”

                 “What’s the point of asking me this?” Thomas snapped. “Planning on running back and telling all of them how—how depraved I am—?”

                 “What? No!” Jimmy protested, but Thomas was nearly frothing, all his suspicions boiling to the surface:

                “I see now—this is all just a big laugh to you—come get the queer to talk about how—all his disgusting, perverted thoughts, and—“

                “Thomas! Shut up and let me talk!” Jimmy shouted. Thomas complied, breathing heavily, his eyes bright with anger. “I’m not trying to trick you, you _git_ ,” he said, “I’m trying to be your _friend_.”

                “Oh? Is this lad talk?” Thomas bit out. “This what you talk about with your mates at the pub, whether or not you think the boys are _dishy_ —?”

                “Would you stop that?” Jimmy said, irritably. “if I wanted to do something to—to get back at you, I wouldn’t have waited a whole _year_. You absolute _prat_ ,” he added, for good measure. This seemed to take the edge off of Thomas’ anger, but he settled back into his pillows still watching Jimmy’s face with suspicion.

                “Then why?” he asked.

                “’Cause we’re _friends_ , aren’t we?” Jimmy countered. “I mean—we get on, you and me.”

                “I don’t follow,” Thomas said, bluntly. Jimmy sighed in exasperation, running his hand through his hair.

                “I weren’t—I weren’t fair to you,” he admitted, finally. “Trying to get you thrown out—with no _reference_ —it wasn’t on. I didn’t really think about it, from—from your perspective, like.”

                “I didn’t expect you to,” Thomas muttered, but he did seem slightly mollified.

                “Yeah, well—I didn’t. And I was—“ _angry, wary, more than a little afraid_ , “—still cross with you, after—for a long time after, but…” Jimmy shrugged. “No one’s ever taken a thrashing in my place before. No one’s—no one’s ever done anything even half as nice for me.”  Thomas smiled, that wry half-smile with that was more self-recriminating than happy.

                “It’s not hard,” he said, “all it takes is staying still long enough—any idiot can do it.”

                “No,” Jimmy said, firmly. “They can’t. Or they just don’t. Either way—“ his hair was going to be a wreck, the way he was running his hand through it. “You were a real friend to me. I don’t like leaving my books unbalanced like that.”

                “We’re even,” Thomas said, quickly. “You don’t have to pay me back—I did you a bad turn, then a good one. That’s even.” Jimmy shook his head.

                “You’re not hearing me right.” He leaned his back, staring at the ceiling, trying to organize his thoughts. “If we’re friends—real friends, mates, what have you—then …” he shifted, uncomfortably. “We share things. After all, you listen to me talk about girls—and Ivy, and all that.” Thomas shook his head, looking sad.

                “You’ll hardly want a tour of my _revolting world_ ,” he said, his words laden with meaning—though what it was, exactly, Jimmy didn’t know. 

                “You shouldn’t say that about yourself,” he said, awkwardly. “You’re—you’re a decent sort.”

                “A decent sort of pervert, you mean,” Thomas said, with a knowing look. Jimmy winced.

                “Come off it,” Jimmy said. “I just—want to be fair to you, that’s all.”

                Thomas titled his head back, looking at him with those piercing blue eyes of his—like he could see right through him. It was eerie.

                Jimmy threw up his hands.

                “Alright!” he said, feeling his cheeks go red, “and maybe—maybe I’m a _little_ curious.” Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Not like that! I told you, I’m not…” Jimmy bit his lip. “I’m not your sort. But I never—I never _met_ a man like you before…”

                “That you know of,” Thomas said, quietly. “We’re hard to spot for a reason.”

                Jimmy had never considered that before. “I s’ppose you’re right,” he said. “But you’re still the first that I _knew_ about.” He shrugged, uncomfortably. “You can’t blame me for being curious.”

                Thomas pursed his lips together, thinking it over. _He does love a pout_ , Jimmy thought, idly.  

                “I’m not a freak,” he said, finally. “You can’t— _gawk_ over me, until you get bored.”

                “I’m not—!”

                “And I’m not some soppy _girl_ , either,” Thomas said, ignoring his protest. “I don’t moon over every man who walks through the door.”

                _But you do moon_ , Jimmy thought to himself, remembering the months Thomas spent shooting him long, lingering looks across the breakfast table.  He kept the comment to himself, for the sake of Thomas’ pride (which, he realized now, was very fragile indeed) and just nodded.

                “Alright,” he said. “Alright. So—?”

                “So that’s it. I am who I am, and I’m not ashamed of it,” he turned his head, looking at Jimmy straight on as though daring him to challenge his words.

                Jimmy just nodded. “Fair play to you,” he said. Thomas settled back on the bed, satisfied by that answer.

“That’s all I’ve got to say about it,” he declared. Jimmy considered.

                “Alright,” he decided, finally. “How ‘bout a game of cards?”

* * *

 

                Months later, well after Thomas was back on his feet, he and Jimmy were outside having a late night smoke break. The leaves had turned, and the air was crisp—and plenty cold, now that the sun had gone down. Their breath came in great clouds of steam, but Thomas and Jimmy were staying warm— mostly by swapping a bottle of cider back and forth. Thomas didn’t say where he’d gotten it, and Jimmy hadn’t asked. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure if Thomas knew where it came from originally—it was well stronger than anything they had here at Downton, and Thomas’ cheeks had distinctly rosy look to them that Jimmy had never seen before.

                “And that’s how it ends,” Jimmy was saying, waving his hand. “Big kiss, go to black.” He was describing the latest film he’d seen to Thomas, who was nodding politely. He’d once confided in Jimmy that he much preferred the theatre, ‘cause he was _learned_ like that.

Thomas made a disparaging sound.

                “Is that the one with the bloke Ivy won’t shut up about?” he asked. “The one with the—“ here he put on a high-pitched mockery of her voice—“  ‘ _dreamy eyes’_?”

                “It is indeed,” Jimmy chuckled, taking another drag of his cigarette. “Ol’ woss-his-name—ah, hold on, wait a tick—“ he fumbled in the pocket of his greatcoat, pulling out a rolled up magazine. “I got him, right—here,” he said, flipping open the magazine to the correct picture. “There he is.”

                Thomas leaned over, squinting in the dim light. His cigarette dangled precariously from his mouth as he studied Jimmy’s magazine. “Nah,” he finally said. “I don’t see it.”

                “ _Nah_?” Jimmy asked, laughing. “Ivy’s wrong, then?”

                “She is indeed. Lookit him, with his nose all—“ Thomas made a vague gesture that told Jimmy very little about how he should feel regarding the nose in question. “No, not at all.” He returned to the magazine, and tilted his head, as though considering. He tapped the page opposite.

                “Him, though,” he said, “I’d go see his film, sure.”

 Jimmy, who had been mid-swig of cider, choked, fighting hard not to spit out his mouthful in shock. Thomas froze, his eyes going wide—as though his brain had only just now caught up to what his mouth was saying.

                “I—forget that, just forget I said anything—“ he stammered. “I—I’ve had a bit to drink—I’ll just—“

                “Thomas!” Jimmy choked out, breath short from equal parts coughing and chortling. “ _Really_!” Jimmy was nearly doubled over laughing, but Thomas wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“I’m pissed—“ Thomas mumbled, but now he sounded sober as a judge. “I should be headed up anyways—“ he made as though to hop down from the table, but Jimmy grabbed his arm and held it tight.

                “Don’t be daft,” he said, firmly. “What, did you think I _forgot_?” He laughed again, but Thomas looked away. “Come on,” he said. “Don’t go in. Here, look—” Jimmy took the magazine back and started flipping through it, until he found the picture he was looking for.

                “What about him?” he said, holding the picture up. Thomas didn’t smile. He threw his cigarette down on the ground.

                “I’m not playing games with you,” he said, quietly but fiercely. Jimmy’s expression fell.

                “I were only teasing,” he said. “What, do you think I would—?” he stopped short of finishing that thought.

  _Oh. Right_.

Jimmy took a long swig of cider, then offered it to Thomas. When he didn’t take it, Jimmy started nudging his arm with the bottle until he conceded.

“You know I trust you, right?” Jimmy asked, frankly. Thomas nodded, still looking down.

“So when are you gonna trust me?”

Thomas turned and looked at him. His hair had come loose from its usual rigorous pomade and fallen across his forehead, which always made him look so much younger—less polished. He studied Jimmy’s face for a long time, and opened his mouth as though he were about to say something—then turned, fumbling in his pockets for a cigarette. He withdrew one from the pack and lit it, staring up at the sky as he exhaled.

“It’s not like that,” he finally admitted. “It’s not about— _trusting_ —or _you_ ,” he shrugged. “It’s just—private. It easier, bein’ private. It’s nobody’s business.”

“Am I nobody, then?” Jimmy said, trying to keep his voice light. Thomas huffed.

“You don’t _want_ to know,” he said, “not really.”

“Can’t I be the judge of that?”

“No,” Thomas scowled, “at some point you’ll realize you don’t want to be a part of this, you’ll get tired of _slumming_ —“ he looked down at the bottle in his hand and took a long pull from it, Adam’s apple moving furiously as he drank. He set it down heavily against the table, exhaling from his nose.

“You’re my friend,” he finished, quietly. “I’d like it to stay that way.”  Jimmy was quiet for a moment, watching Thomas carefully.

“You can’t put me off that easy,” he said, finally. “I mean—I listen to it all day from Ivy, it’s not so different—“

“I told you I’m not a _girl_ ,” Thomas snapped.  Jimmy held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

“I’m just saying,” he said, quietly. “If that’s how it is with you, say no more, but…” he shrugged. “You don’t have to pretend for _my_ sake.”

Thomas’ expression softened, and he gave Jimmy a small, sad smile. “Everybody knows now,” he said, quietly. “They all know, but I _still_ have to keep pretending.”

“How come?” Jimmy asked.

“ ‘Cause I’d rather be a liar than a laughingstock,” Thomas answered. There was a rawness to his words—like he’d been peeled out of all his layers, like Jimmy was seeing him now in something more intimate than even his undershirt.  Thomas seemed to realize this, and shoved his cigarette in his mouth, puffing away as though the smoke would cover their mutual embarrassment.

“Well,” Jimmy said, finally, “for what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re either.” One corner of Thomas’ mouth turned up in in a half-smile.

“Cheers,” he said, holding out the bottle. “You want the last of this?”

“Nah,” Jimmy shook his head. “I’m polishing silver all day tomorrow—if I chuck my breakfast in the soup tureen, ol’ Carson will skin me alive.” Thomas actually laughed at that, a soft _hah_.  

“We better both go in,” he said. “Before Mrs. Hughes locks us out.” He downed the last of the cider, then took the bottle and lobbed it across the yard. It spun in the air—once, twice, three times—before landing with an almighty crash against the wall of the courtyard. Jimmy jumped at the sound.

“Bloody hell, Thomas!” he swore. “What was that for?” Thomas just laughed.

“ ‘Cause I _feel_ like it,” he said, pushing himself off the table. Jimmy followed, feeling only slightly unsteady on his feet. They reached the door and Thomas opened it for him with a flair, as though he were a guest at one of the Crawley’s fancy modern cocktail parties. Jimmy accepted, with an affected “Good show, m’lad”. They both laughed.

“Hey, Thomas?” Jimmy asked. He looked both ways, checking that the servant’s hall was empty. “Let’s go see a film sometime. One with that bloke in it, yeah?”

Thomas paused, looking down at Jimmy carefully. He seemed to be weighing his words, judging them carefully. He pressed his lips together, thinking it over.

Then he smiled.

“Alright,” he said, “I think I’d like that.”


	6. Message in a bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phyllis Baxter comes to Downton

February 26th, 1922

Dear Thomas,

                I expect you’re surprised to receive a letter from me. I’ll admit that I am writing to you now under circumstances that are less than ideal. You will find, reading this, that I have been very selfish—in general, yes, but particularly in the writing of this letter. You will have noticed the return address, of course. What can I tell you? My shame is known to everyone else, why not you as well?

                You see, I am writing this letter now because I have come rather unexpectedly to the end of my sentence. Apparently, I have shown such exemplary behavior now that they are releasing me two years earlier than I anticipated. I find myself now desperate for a source of employment—it seems clear to me that the previous avenues I may have pursued are now barred to me forever. I know that the chances are unlikely that you could find an opening that would take me as I am now, but please—if we were ever friends, please consider it.

                I understand that I have come to you asking for an enormous favor, one you may not be able to fulfill, even if you were so inclined. I feel I must tell you, that there will be no lies between us, how I came to know you were at Downton Abbey (if you are, in fact, still there, and haven’t moved away years ago, as is more likely). I was once friends with a lady’s maid to her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Crowborough. What she told me is unimportant, but I knew that the ‘Thomas’ she spoke of could be no one else but you. Yes, I have known for years where you were, and only written to you now, in my hour of need. Why? I couldn’t say. Because I am selfish, I suppose. Because we parted on such uncertain terms. Because I am, in addition to a criminal and a betrayer, a coward as well.

It’s unlikely that you’ll believe me, given what I’ve just confessed to you, but I was glad to hear of your position. It gave me great peace of mind to think of you, safe and secure as a footman in a Great House, with a future ahead of you. I was so relieved to hear that you hadn’t taken any number of dark paths that I feared lay before you—how hypocritical of me to say, when I am the one in prison and you are out there, rising in the world. Life can be a funny thing.

If nothing else, I hope this letter finds you well. If you read it at all, I assume you’ll toss it in the fire once you’re done—and I wouldn’t blame you one bit if you did so. But please, know that whatever you chose to do, believe me when I say that I hope you are well, truly I do. I would be glad to know that you are healthy and happy in the beautiful Yorkshire countryside. Please, if you can, indulge my one last, selfish request: even if you don’t wish to aid a felon, at least send me a reply that lets me know you are as happy in real life as you are in my imaginations.

                                                Yours truly,   
                                                Phyllis Baxter

* * *

 

March 7th, 1922

Miss Baxter—

My my— the worm certainly has turned, hasn’t it? I am indeed still at Downton Abbey, but as under-butler now, thank you very much.

If I’m to help you, you must write back to me and answer the following questions:

  1. What, exactly, was the nature of your crime and sentence? Spare no details, please.
  2. What skills and experiences do you have that would make you employable?
  3. If I get you this job, what will you do for me in return?



Answer right and I can make this all go away.

T. Barrow

* * *

 

March 30th, 1922

Dear Thomas,

                I hope you received my last letter—if not, let me know, and I will copy it out again. If the information in it was insufficient, I will try to provide more details—though what else you could possibly want to know, I cannot fathom.

                You’ll see from my return address that I’ve found a new place to live. I know I included it in my last letter, but perhaps you forgot and sent your reply to the wrong place instead? I share my new flat with four other women, but that in its own way is a blessing. I am glad of the company, and they were able to find me a job—at least, for the moment. I suppose I’m working as a seamstress of sorts, but in a factory in the garment district making shirtwaists. The work is hard, and the hours are long, but the money is coming in, so that’s a relief. I get less than the other girls, because they are young and have never been to prison, but I suppose that’s the way things are, now. If I could get a little more I could put away from my own sewing machine, and maybe take in mending work or even bespoke orders again, but that seems very unlikely.

                I do have a life for myself here—I was so desperately afraid I wouldn’t, but it seems as though I can only move forward. This isn’t how I saw myself living, all those years ago, but I suppose I can’t predict the future.

                I understand if your silence means that there was nothing to be done for me—or that you decided you no longer wish to look. I cringe now to think how bold I was, writing you before—not just because of how badly I have treated you, but because I truly thought myself too good for this life, even after everything I had done. I have fallen in the world, yes, but I realize now that the people I have fallen amongst are not nearly as wretched as me. In prison it seemed my greatest sin was pride—an enduring belief that somehow I was not tainted by my crimes, that I was not truly _like_ the other women in my position.

                Even so, I hope you will forgive me my earlier impertinence. I do wish to know how you are. What is it like, working for an Earl in a country house? There are now windows in the factory, and our flat looks out onto a gray alley identical to the hundreds of other gray alleys that seem to make up the entirety of this side of London. I like to shut my eyes and imagine Yorkshire in full spring bloom, with the gardens a riot of color and the sun painting the fields the most brilliant green. I like to think the sky is blue where you are, really blue, without any smoke from the factories, and that there is a river somewhere that runs clear and sparkling.

                Do you ever see it? Do you get chance to walk the grounds? What is your life like? I imagine you’re very busy, but I want to hear all of it. After so many years there, you must have many friends at Downton, many stories to tell. It sounds as though I envy you—and I do. But what right do I have to envy?

                I suppose it’s only right that you would want nothing to do with me. But please, believe me when I say that I do miss you. I truly regret not writing sooner—it’s strange, but every day I find myself wondering what you look like now. It seems so strange to me that you will have grown into a man—a fine one, by the sound of it. I am proud of you Thomas, and I know your mother and Sally and everyone else would be too.

 If you ever write again, I only ask that you let me know you are well.

                                                Your Friend,  
                                                Phyllis Baxter

* * *

 

April 13th, 1922

                Standby for a telegram, something may shake loose soon. Don’t go anywhere.

                 T. Barrow

* * *

 

POST OFFICE TELEGRAPH

TO: PHYLLIS BAXTER                                                                                                                                                                                                                      APRIL 20TH 1922

IMMEDIATE VACANCY LADYS MAID TO LADY G EVERYTHING TAKEN CARE OF COME TO DOWNTON AT ONCE ON EARLIEST TRAIN MONEY TO FOLLOW

* * *

 

POST OFFICE TELEGRAPH

TO: THOMAS BARROW                                                                                                                                                                                                                    APRIL 21st 1922

TICKET BOOKED ARRIVING 6 AM TMRW THANK YOU THOMAS GOD BLESS YOU

* * *

                It wasn’t a becoming thing for a grown woman to think, but as Phyllis stared hungrily out of the train window she imagined the village of Downton looked like something out of a storybook. It was early yet—the sky was only just starting to lighten, but even in the pre-dawn gloom the homes and shops looked friendly and inviting, with warm light spilling from windows and streetlamps.

                _Anyplace looks friendly after prison cell_ , she thought to herself. She closed her eyes and shook her head in a small movement, as if the motion could chase the dark thought away. Things were going to be different now. She was going to put that behind her.

                Far, far behind her, where it could never catch up to her again.

                There were only two or three other passengers with her on in her carriage, they all stood as one and silently disembarked into the morning air. She murmured a soft “thank you” to the porter before making her way down the steps, gingerly alighting on the platform. She immediately spotted the man she was looking for—there he was, all these years later, leaning against the stairwell and lazily smoking a cigarette.

                _He looks pale_ , she thought, despite herself. His face seemed nearly next to the darkness of his hair and clothes. But he was dashing as ever, having grown out of any teenage gawkiness or awkwardness into a very self-assured (and, if she was being honest, terribly handsome) young man. 

She smiled as she drew near. He did not reciprocate.

“Thomas,” she greeted him, “you’ve gotten so tall—”

“It happens,” he cut her off, coldly. “And it’s _Mr. Barrow_ these days.”

Her heart sank. So she _hadn’t_ been imagining the brusqueness in his letter. She’d known he’d come up in the world, under-butler in a Great House, but she had been foolish enough to hope it hadn’t changed him. He certainly _looked_ the part, with his bowler hat and smart coat, but Phyllis imagined that somehow the years had been less than kind to Thomas—it was written in the hard expression he wore, and the lines under his eyes.

“And how have you been, Mr. Barrow?” she asked. His eyes flashed, pinning her under his sharp blue stare.

“Let’s get a move on, Miss Baxter,” he said, in lieu of an answer. “It wouldn’t do to be late your first day on the job.”

He flicked his cigarette to the ground, careless of where it fell, and turned on his heel. He didn’t even pause to see if she was following him. Phyllis picked up her bags and hurried after him, struggling to keep up with his long strides.

                “Everything went well on my journey up here,” she said, after a few moments of silence. “Thank you for sending the money.”

                “You had to get here somehow, didn’t you?” Thomas didn’t even look at her to reply. “You’re on your own from here on out, mind.”

                “I didn’t expect charity,” Phyllis replied, waspishly.

                “Good. ‘Cos you’ll get none here, I can promise you that.”

                Phyllis stared up at Thomas’ face, staring straight ahead, impassive and seemingly unfeeling.

                “Under-butler,” she said, changing the subject. “I suppose that makes you the big man of the house.”

                “It does indeed,” Thomas answered, briskly. “Don’t you forget it.”

                Phyllis nearly rolled her eyes. What had gotten _into_ Thomas?

                “Yes, very important. If everyone back home could see you now—“ 

                “You’re awfully chatty,” Thomas cut her off, abruptly. “It’s not a becoming trait in a lady’s maid.”

                “I haven’t seen you in nearly fifteen years,” Phyllis said, in disbelief. “Surely—“

                “Miss Baxter,” Thomas stopped dead, turning to face her. “It seems you’ve misunderstood the nature of our agreement here. I didn’t bring you here so we could be _chummy_.  Our relationship as of now is _strictly_ business.”

                 “Business?” Phyllis answered, with a confused, helpless laugh. “Thomas—“

                “ _Mr. Barrow_ , if you please,” he corrected her, sharply. “And this is how it going to be—you _owe_ me now, Miss Baxter. You agreed that if I pulled the strings, made all your troubles go away, you’d be loyal to _me_.” Phyllis felt the blood drain from her face.

                “Of course I’m grateful to you—for everything—”

                “I don’t think you quite understand. Your _gratitude_ doesn’t get me where I need to be.” Thomas tilted his head back, and his eyes were flinty. “You’ll be lady’s maid to the Countess, sure, but you’re going to be _working_ for _me_.”

                “What exactly are you saying?” she asked, warily.

                “I’m not asking for anything you can’t deliver,” he said. “In fact, you don’t have to do much of anything at all—but you see, you’re my eyes and ears now. When you’re upstairs with her Ladyship and Lord Grantham, or when you’re in the servant’s hall, everything you hear is going to find its way back to me.”

                “You want me to be your _spy_?” Phyllis asked, her stomach twisting with revulsion at the idea.

Thomas shrugged.

                “If you insist on calling it that, so be it.”

                “But—“

                “But _what_?” he snapped. “ _You_ told me you accepted the conditions of my help—are you a liar as well as a thief?” Phyllis winced at the word ‘thief’, her eyes darting back and forth to make sure no one had overheard. “That’s right,” Thomas said, his cruel grin back in place. “I haven’t forgot—as a matter of fact, _you_ handed me your signed confession.”

Phyllis pressed her lips together and shut her eye briefly, trying to keep from screaming. _Spare no detail,_ he’d instructed her. Of _course_ she’d signed the letter at the bottom. She was a fool.

 “Your secret is safe with me,” he continued, “don’t you worry—as long as you do what I say, everything’s going to go just swimmingly.”

                “You can’t ask me to do this,” Phyllis said, trying to keep the betrayal out of her voice. “I _know_ you, Thomas! I’ve known you since you were small—“

                “So what?” he snarled. “So we’re supposed to be bosom buddies, is that it? _You’re_ the one who wrote because you needed a favor—because I was the very last person in your address book more wretched than a _convict_.” Phyllis winced again, but Thomas went on. “Did you think _I_ didn’t need any favors, after being tossed out on my ear?”

                “I’m not proud of myself,” she said, quietly. “I should have written the moment I learned where you were, and I—“

                “Can’t do much trade in ‘should haves’, now, can I? Would have, could have, should have—fine words butter no parsnips, I’m afraid.” She felt nearly numb with shock—who was this man before her now, with a heart like ice? Thomas had never been a _sweet_ child, always willful and prone to sulks, but this—

                “How can you do this?” she asked, feeling very close to tears. Thomas shrugged and started walking again, forcing Baxter to hurry and keep up with him.

                “Quite easily, as it turns out,” he said, flippantly. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out another cigarette, lighting it with an expert flick of his thumb.  “You’ve done this to yourself, really. I’m not asking more than anyone else willing to lie about your _crimes_ —”

                “Because _you’ve_ never made a mistake in your life, is that it?” Phyllis shot back, in a low voice. “You’ve got nothing to hide? I _never_ judged you Thomas, not once, not even—“

                “Oh,” Thomas stopped dead and turned to her, voice flat and eyes blazing, and Phyllis knew she’d crossed a line. “You think you know a little secret of mine? You think you can hold that over me?” He smiled, but there was nothing but hate in the expression. “Was that your plan, if I’d said no? Would you have written to his Lordship next, warning him there was something _queer_ about his footman—?”

                Phyllis’ eyes went wide. “No! Nothing like that! I wasn’t—how could you think I would—?”

                “How could you not? It would have been so easy, wouldn’t it?” Thomas sneered at her. “Do you think I’d really be stupid enough to not have _dealt_ with that already? Go on, go on and tell them—it’s nothing they don’t already _know_.”

                Phyllis watched Thomas’ face, uncertainly. She’d been wrong to bring up Thomas’ _peculiarity_ —she hadn’t even mentioned it in the letters, for fear of who could find out. She had wondered if it were still true—if he had perhaps grown out of it, or left it behind somehow. Surely, it should have been a happy thing, that he had such a trusted position in the house that even knowledge of his—curious preferences—couldn’t dislodge him from it?

                Then why did he sound so bitter when he said those words?

                “I’m happy for you,” she said, quietly. “I’m glad that—“

                “ _Shut up_ ,” his words fell like a slap. “No you aren’t.”

                “I am,” she pushed back, “It wasn’t right, what your father—“

                “If you say one more word about him I will put you back on that train,” Thomas hissed. He put his cigarette back in his mouth and took a furious drag from it. “I hold all the cards here, Miss Baxter. You do your job, and you do as I say, and everything will be fine. You don’t, and I make it all go away just as easily as I made it happen in the first place. Do you understand?” Phyllis looked away, so he couldn’t see the anger in her eyes.

                “Do you _understand_?” he repeated, menacingly. She looked up at his face, chin raised defiantly.

                “Yes, Mr. Barrow,” she bit out. “I understand completely.”

                “Good,” he said, lightly. “Shall we?”

                They walked the remaining miles to the Abbey in silence.

* * *

 

                She had nearly hoped that Downton Abbey would be a dreadful place—that the people there were all like Thomas, cruel and duplicitous and conniving, that she would have no qualms turning around and walking out the door and making her way back to London to beg for her job at the factory back—

                But they weren’t. It was just like she’d dreamed it was—almost too good to be true.

                Only her devil’s bargain with her former friend made it clear that this wasn’t all a dream.

                They’d arrived just in time for breakfast in the servant’s hall. Phyllis couldn’t help but note the way people eyed Thomas warily, as though he were a half-feral dog in their midst—and how that suspicion seemed to transfer itself to her, at least partially. Even so, they were perfectly polite; Mrs. Hughes the housekeeper insisted that she take a plate and eat with them until her Ladyship woke up.

                “So you already know Mr. Barrow?” that was Mrs. Bates, who looked rather sad and tired, lady’s maid to the recently widowed daughter Mary.   Phyllis nodded, with a wary look at her benefactor. Thomas said nothing, mechanically demolishing his toast.

                “Yes,” she said, quietly. “I—Mr. Barrow and I grew up close to each other. We were neighbors.”

                “Where were you working last?” that was Carson, the butler—he was grand and intimidating and Phyllis _knew_ he knew about her. She imagined he could see through her, peer into her mind and see her past written in her thoughts. She squeezed her fork, trying to keep her hands from shaking.

                “Miss Baxter is a trained lady’s maid, but recently she was taking work as a seamstress,” Thomas lied, smoothly. Well, it wasn’t really a lie—it just wasn’t quite the truth, either. Carson regarded him with open suspicion.

                “And what brings you back to service, Miss Baxter?” he asked her, pointedly. She swallowed.

                “I missed the country,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. “I missed the work.”

                This answer seemed to please Carson, and he settled back into his breakfast with no further questions. They were all perfectly nice, these people—what had they done to deserve Thomas?

                To deserve _her_ , creeping into their midst like a cuckoo in the nest?

                The bellboard rang behind her, startling her out of her reverie. “That’ll be her Ladyship,” Mrs. Bates said, quietly. “I’ll take up you there, get you settled in, and you should be ready to take care of her by tomorrow.”

                “Hopefully sooner than that,” Phyllis said, putting on a smile, but Mrs. Bates didn’t respond.

                Phyllis felt even worse when she met Lady Grantham. She was an American, and spoke in the strange, flat sounds of New York, but she had a soft voice and kind eyes, and even in her nightgown she was grand.

                “I must thank you for arriving so very promptly,” Lady Grantham said, looking up from her breakfast tray. “Thomas only sent the telegraph yesterday afternoon—you must have had to race for the train.”

                “I didn’t want to miss my chance, Milady,” she said, carefully.

                “Well, I must admit I am glad. I do hate to impose on poor Anna. Why don’t you let her show you around?”

                _She would never trust you if she knew_ , a cruel voice in the back of Baxter’s head whispered. She ignored it, running the tips of her finger over the jewel box before Anna put it back in its usual resting place.

                _I won’t give her any reason not to_.

                Now she was back in her room, unpacking her bags—Mrs. Hughes had been gracious enough to send the scullery maid up with them while she met Lady Grantham. The room was bare, stark, but at least it was light—she might not have been able to bear it if it was stone, like her cell…

                The door opened and she turned, scowling.

                “I don’t think you’re supposed to be in the girl’s hall,” she said, her voice tight. Thomas raised an eyebrow at her.

                “What mischief could I get up to _here_?” he asked, and Baxter blinked. It was strange to hear him joke about…it. He hefted a large leather carrying case and set it on her bed, looking at her expectantly.

                “Well?” he said, impatiently. “I haven’t got all day.”

                She went to the case and unlatched it, pulling away the lid—and gasped despite herself. It was a sewing machine, sleek and black and brand-new by the looks of it. She stared up at Thomas, uncomprehending.

                “Is this for me?” she asked. He rolled his eyes.

                “No, it’s mine, I’ve taken up mending,” he drawled, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “Of course it’s for you. You _said_ you needed one.” 

                Phyllis ran an appreciative hand over the surface, hardly believing her eyes. “This must have been expensive,” she murmured. She looked up at Thomas, trying to read his face. “Why are you doing this?”

                He looked as though it was the most obvious thing in the world: “You said you needed one—“

“You threaten me,” she said, quietly, so that no one else could overhear, “you _blackmail_ me—and now you’re just _giving_ me a sewing machine?” Thomas tilted his head, perhaps taken aback by the fire in her voice.

“It’s an investment, Miss Baxter,” he said, briskly. “For me and for you. I think you’ll find you’ll be very _helpful_ around the house, and not just to her Ladyship.”

Thomas had spent some time thinking this through—weaving this little web to both trap her and then to send her out to do the trapping. He would have been dreaming this up since the moment he got her letter. “What happened to you?” she asked, sadly.

He gave a short, confused laugh. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“When did you turn so cold?” she asked, staring determinedly up at him. “The little boy I knew—“

Thomas laughed at that. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I haven’t been a little boy for some time. We all do what we have to in order to get by—but I’m not just getting by,” he looked down on her, with an infuriatingly superior air: I’m going places, and _you’re_ going to help me get there.” He gestured to the sewing machine with his chin. “Make good use of that, or I’ll ask you to pay me back for it.” He turned to leave.

“You’ve changed, Thomas,” she said, to his retreating back. He paused, and looked over his shoulder.

“You’re damn right I have,” he said, “I did what I had to in order to win, because God knows you and the others weren’t lining up to be _helpful_. Now, good day, Miss Baxter—I’m sure you’re going to be _very busy_ for the next week or so.”

He swept out of the room, leaving her alone with the sewing machine and her thoughts.

* * *

 

In the coming days, Baxter wondered if she had somehow written to a different Thomas Barrow, not the one she’d grown up with. He was more of a perfect stranger to her than any of the others, whom she’d never met before. There was just too many pieces, so much about him that she didn’t know and couldn’t puzzle out about his time here at Downton. Thomas was perfectly polite with her when they were in with the others—maybe even cheerful, in his own way. But as soon as they were alone he clammed up, giving her a meaningful look or reminded her of her ‘second job’.

“D’ya ever wash that thing?” Mrs. Patmore asked, wrinkling her nose. It was after servant’s hall dinner, and Phyllis was enjoying a last cup of tea in the kitchen with Anna while Thomas went over orders with Mrs. Patmore. She indicated the single half-glove Thomas wore—which had begun to take on a yellowish hue, but that was likely due to cigarette smoke more than anything else.

“I hardly see how its relevant, Mrs. Patmore,” Thomas replied, coolly. “Now, the flour—“

“It’s relevant to me!” she said, cutting him off. “I’ll not have you in the kitchen touchin’ things with it while it’s like that.”

Thomas took in a deep breath, like he was at the end of his patience—but rather than shouting, he threw down his clipboard and stalked out of the kitchen.

“I’m having a smoke,” he called over his shoulder. “Fill it out yourself, why don’t you!”

“Ooo, he’s touchy, isn’t he?” Mrs. Patmroe murmured to herself. She picked up the clipboard and flipped through it, idly. Phyllis opened her mouth, considering her question carefully.

“Why _does_ Mr. Barrow wear that glove?” Phyllis asked. Mrs. Patmore shot her a funny look, before reaching over and putting her glasses on.

“ ‘Cos of his blighty,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s proper unsightly, Mr. Carson doesn’t want it on display during dinner service—or anywhere else, for that matter!”

“His blighty?” Phyllis asked. “You mean—like from the war?” Mrs. Patmore regarded her over her glasses as though she were a particularly dense child.

“Where else would he have gotten shot?”

Phyllis put her teacup down. She turned on her heel, marching to the back door. The kitchen staff watched her go in surprise.

“How could she not know?” Daisy said, frowning. Mrs. Patmore shrugged.

“There’s something odd between them, alright, but it’s none of my business—and none of yours. Finish that up and go to bed.”

Outside, Phyllis rounded on Thomas, who was leaned up against the wall with one of his ever-present cigarettes. “You fought in the war?” she asked—more like an accusation. He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Not fought, precisely. Hauled stretchers around for the RAMC.”

Phyllis felt her mouth fall open. “You were at the front!”

Thomas scowled. “Is that really so surprising? You thought they decided I was too _delicate_ for the meat grinder an’ let me go my merry way?”

Phyllis didn’t know what she thought. Of _course_ Thomas was just the right age for the draft—if he hadn’t volunteered before that. How had it never occurred to her that he may have been in France or Flanders or who-knows-where all those years?

                “I didn’t know,” she said. “ _Sally_ didn’t know. Did your father? Did anybody?” Thomas’ face darkened.

“Seemed pointless to tell a man who wouldn’t’ve cared,” he answered, coolly.

“You could have died! He would have cared about that!”

“Only ‘cos it would’ve been a weight off his mind.”

“Don’t say that,” Baxter said, sadly. “He would be so _proud_ to know—“

“Lying doesn’t suit you, Miss Baxter,” Thomas said, flatly. “I could’ve dragged the Kaiser home in a sack and it would’ve have meant a _thing_ to him.”

Phyllis didn’t say anything to that. Thomas took another long drag on his cigarette, exhaling a steady stream of white smoke.

“Have you not been in touch with anyone since you left?” she asked, quietly. Thomas snorted.

“Since I was told to leave and never come back, you mean? No, I haven’t felt the need to ring up ol’ Dad for a nice chat, why do you ask?”

Phyllis pressed her lips together, unsure of how to go on. “Do you not…know about Sally?” she said, quietly. Thomas shot her an unreadable look, but didn’t answer.

“She died, Thomas,” she said, quietly. For a moment, the mask slipped—Thomas’ eyes went wide, and his lips parted slightly in surprise. “It was three years ago—Spanish Flu. I—I’m so sorry, I thought you knew…”

Thomas looked down at the ground, mouth still open, as if he didn’t believe her—as though he couldn’t believe her, couldn’t wrap his head around the words. “That’s why you wrote to me,” he said, faintly. “Me, and not her. ‘Cos she’s gone.”

“Greg is still alive,” Phyllis said, quietly. “They married, you know—they had three children. Your nieces and nephews. You could—“

“No,” Thomas shook his head. “No. I don’t want to see them.”

“But—“

“I don’t want to see them because they don’t want to see me,” he bit out. He threw his cigarette to the ground, still smoldering. “I’m headed up. Goodnight, Miss Baxter.”

“Thomas—“

“ _Good night_ , Miss Baxter,” he repeated, harshly, and swept past her. Phyllis wondered if this was how it would be between them, from here on out: Thomas handing her one piece of a thousand-part puzzle before stalking away, leaving her alone in the darkness.

She shrugged and went in after him, determined to finish her tea—and see what else she had missed.

* * *

 

Weeks later, Phyllis cornered Thomas in the servant’s hall, an envelope clutched in her fist.

 “Here,” she said. She thrust the envelope to his chest, forcing him to pluck it from her grasp. Thomas opened it, his eyes flicking back and forth, before running an appreciative thumb over the pound notes within.

“It’s not my birthday, Miss Baxter,” he said, lightly, but the look in his eye was serious.

“That’s how much it cost, isn’t it?” she said, keeping her voice low. “My sewing machine. That’s all of it.”

Thomas pressed his lips together, eye going hard. “This must have been all your wages from the past few weeks. He leaned in closer. “You’d be in a bad way if you lost your job.”

“I certainly would,” she agreed, raising her chin to meet her glare. “I don’t intend to. I am beholden to you for getting me this job, Mr. Barrow, but it’s the _only_ way—the only hold you have on me.”

                Thomas considered her for a long moment, with something that could have been a glint of respect in his eyes. Then he shrugged, shoving the money in his pocket.

                “It’s not skin off my nose,” he said, “I’ll take your money, if that’s what you want.” He looked her in the eye, his voice dropping, “but _this_ doesn’t cover what you owe me. Remember how I take my payment.”

                “I remember,” she said, darkly. “That—“ she indicated his pocket, “is for me, not you.”

                He raised an eyebrow. “Have it your own way,” he said, and left it at that.


	7. Ceasefire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armistice Day, 1924: Mrs. Patmore and Thomas talk about cowardice

                Mr. Mason and Daisy had both gone, each taking a chance to trail their fingertips over William’s name (etched forever in the stone of the memorial and on their hearts) before they did. It was nearly time to return to the Abbey and put the finishing touches on the Armistice Day luncheon his Lordship was hosting. Beryl wanted one last look at Archie’s stone before she went—it seemed almost too good to be true. She was nearly afraid that it had vanished while her back was turned.

                As she rounded the corner, she was surprised to find she wasn’t the only person who’d come to look at the memorial to her nephew: _Thomas_ , of all people, was loitering in the front of the plaque. He stared at it with an unreadable expression, head titled back while he puffed on one of his ever-present cigarettes. Then, to her shock, he leaned over and patted the stone—gently, as if in farewell—before putting his hat back on his head and turning to walk away. He stopped dead when he laid eyes on her, realizing someone had witnessed his moment of reverence.

                “What’s it to you, then?” Beryl asked, warily. Thomas huffed.

                “What?”

                “You didn’t know him,” she said, eyes narrowing. “What’s it to you, that Archie’s got a memorial?”

                “Nothing,” he said, just a little too quickly. “It’s nothing.” He tried to brush past her but she moved to the side, planting herself squarely in his path. Thomas stared down at her, scowling, but she scowled right back.

                “I’m just glad he’s got a stone, is all,” Thomas relented, finally. Beryl raised an eyebrow at that.

                “Why?” she asked, nearly accusing.

                Thomas raised his cigarette to his lips, taking an agitated drag from it. He exhaled, glaring down at her, blinking just a little too much.

                “ ‘Cos he weren’t a coward, not really,” he blurted, after a long moment. Beryl felt her mouth fall open slightly in surprise. It was unreal, hearing the words she’d repeated to herself over and over like a desperate prayer coming from _Thomas Barrow’s_ mouth. She felt as though the whole world had flipped upside-down.

                “What—what makes you say _that_?”

                Thomas’ eyes flicked back and forth, as though he were an animal in a trap. “He just—he did the smart thing,” he mumbled. “We were all scared—anyone who tells you different is a dirty liar. But we were more scared of running than we were of staying.” Beryl felt her brow furrow, but she didn’t say anything.

Thomas raised his cigarette again, puffing on it with a faraway look in his eyes. “If we’d all run—all of us, at the same time—they couldn’t have done nothing about it. There were only a couple of them and so many of us. That’s what we should have done—better to run for your life and take the consequences than get blown to pieces for no reason at all—“

                “It weren’t for no reason,” Beryl cut in, sharply. Thomas looked down at her, startled, as if he’d forgotten she was there. “Archie was fighting for his country. He died for his _country_.”

                “And look what his country did to him,” Thomas said, coldly.  He must have seen the fury in her face, because he moved to cut her off before she could start going: “I didn’t come here to scrap with you, Mrs. Patmore. I just wanted to pay my respects, is all.” He looked back at the stone, suddenly looking very weary. “It should be— someone else in the ground, not him.”

                That didn’t sound like Thomas at all. Beryl took a cautious step forward. “Why do you say that?” she asked, with a softness she seldom had reason to use. Thomas was quiet for a long moment, not quite able to her eyes.

                “ ‘Cos at least he was honest about it,” he said, finally. “The only thing he did wrong was get caught. He could have been sneaky about it, gone out a back way, and he’d still be alive and well.” The faraway look was back in his eye, and he took was holding his gloved hand, rubbing the bullet wound with his thumb. “Lotsa men found their way out. They pulled strings and got cushy jobs behind the lines, or they paid bribes, got their medical exam faked—they stayed home and sent us out into the mud—sent the boys over the top and then the rest to drag back what was left of them…” Thomas trailed off, looking a little lost. “But some found a way out of there, too.”

                “Did they?” Mrs. Patmore prompted him, gently. Archie had written her sister, and she’d seen some of those letters. They were never very detailed—usually just list of things he wanted to eat when he got home (a thought that made her heart clench) or other silly thoughts. She’d never know what it was he saw that made him decide to run for it, what had hurt his brain so badly he stopped thinking straight. She knew, abstractly, that things had gotten very grim indeed in the trenches—certainly poor Mr. Lang hadn’t come out of it quite right, and he wasn’t the only one.

 It had never occurred to her that Thomas might have carried something back with him from Flanders—that he might have come back a little funny as well. She supposed with someone like Thomas, it was hard to tell when something was truly amiss, when he weren’t quite put-together to begin with.

                “Some lads,” Thomas finally said, quietly, “they did things to get out. They made themselves sick, or they were reckless, running into the guns, or they—pretended—they were—they were _careless_ —an’—“ he was gripping his hand so tightly his knuckles went white, and his cigarette was in danger of falling from his numb fingers. Beryl reached out, slowly, and placed a hand on his arm. Thomas started, snapping back to the present.

                “There’s no shame in what he did, is all,” he said, hastily. “If he was here he could walk down the street with his head held high—he was right. He was…bloody well right.” He brought his cigarette to his lips again, and Beryl tried to ignore the way his fingers were shaking.

                “It’s good he’s got a stone,” he repeated himself. “That were proper decent of his Lordship, to give him one. Someone should remember him—remember that it weren’t all medals an’ speeches an’ glory. Archie were the only one with the sense to run for it—“ he finished with an attempt at usual flippancy: “—and well done, him.”

                Beryl wasn’t sure _what_ to think of all. It was the kindest anyone had been to Archie (or, at least, his memory) outside the family. It was—a comfort, in a way, to know that at least one person who was _there_ understood what had happened to her nephew, understood and accepted it and offered sincere condolences. That the person offering them was _Thomas_ , of all people, made her wonder if this was all some peculiar dream she was having.

                And, if she understood what he was trying to say…

                Even a year ago she may have felt angry at him—angry at him for cheating, for being alive when her Archie, who was good and kind and gentle and all the things Thomas wasn’t, lay dead and disgraced in somewhere in France, in a grave she’d never see. She had always thought it unfair that he’d survived his wound and poor William hadn’t, or that he’d come home early when Alfred had spent four years in the trenches and had to excuse himself during fireworks or Christmas crackers. She supposed it was because Thomas seemed to _know_ —he knew perfectly well there was no fairness to it, that he was still alive with medals on his chest while better people were gone and forgotten. He understood the hollowness of it all, and for once he took no pleasure in it.

                “You did your bit,” she heard herself saying, softly. Thomas raised his head and stared at her, as if he didn’t quite believe what she was saying. “No one can say you didn’t.”

                He tilted his head, as though waiting for the other shoe to drop—for her to lay into him, screaming and shouting, but the harsh words never came. He gave her a smile—a very small one, and a little crooked, but a genuine expression of gratitude.

“S’ppose they can’t,” he said. He turned back to Archie’s memorial, placing his hand against it.

“Rest easy, Archie,” he murmured, with genuine reverence in his voice. She stood beside him, swallowing back tears, and simply touched the stone, the way Thomas had earlier. For a moment they stood there like that, united in their respect and grief.

“There are worse things to get court-martialed for, you know,” he commented, breaking the silence. Beryl raised an eyebrow at him.

                “Oh? Like what?” she asked.

                Thomas turned to her, watching her with an unreadable expression, as if weighing whether or not he should say what was on his mind. Then, his expression fell back into that all-too-familiar smirk of his.

“Buggery, for one,” he replied, rakishly.

Beryl felt her mouth fall open. Of all the cheeky, inappropriate—! Today, on this of all days—! She took her had off her hat and hit him in the arm with it.

                “Ow! Mrs. Patmore—!”

                “Thomas Barrow!” she hissed, punctuating her words with a series of smacks. “We! Are at! A _church_ —!”

                Now _there_ was the man she knew—turning up again like a bad penny. Thomas never did let them believe anything good of him for long.


	8. Alliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pre-series, O'Brien takes the new footman under her wing

                The new footman looked peaky— tall but weedy, not quite finished with his teenage gawkiness, and just a shade too pale, especially with that shock of dark hair. He had a standoffish air, his eyes flitting around the table without ever actually meeting anyone else’s. He seemed…restless, somehow. Unsettled. O’Brien gave him a month before he booked it— _maybe_.

                “This is Thomas,” Carson was saying, with a hand on the new boy’s back. Thomas seemed to be resisting the urge to squirm away from the touch. Smart lad.

 “John, you get him settled in upstairs while Peter and I handle upstairs breakfast. Show him around, get him his livery sorted out, and have him ready to be serving dinner tonight.”

                “Tonight?” the boy looked astonished. Carson turned on him, and the boy seemed to realize he’d spoken out of turn.

                “Will that be problem, Thomas?” he asked, in a dangerous rumble.

                “Oh no, Mr. Carson,” he replied, hastily, not quite squashing the look of _Yes it bloody will be!_ “Not at all.”

                “I should hope not. You’ll find it’s not too different form the way they did things at Deerfield Manor, and you _should_ be able to pick it up quickly enough. Hop to it, then.”

                Thomas leaned over and gathered his suitcase, but not before shooting Carson a truly nasty look once his back was turned. Even O’Brien raised an eyebrow at the intensity of it.

                _Well. The new lad’s got spirit, that’s for sure_ , she thought. He disappeared up the attic steps, just in time for her Ladyship to ring the bell—O’Brien tipped back the last of her tea and stood, heading for the kitchen, all thoughts of the new footman driven from her mind.

                With her ladyship was well and taken care of, and O’Brien was outside enjoying the last of the autumn sunshine and, more importantly, her first morning cigarette. She heard a soft noise next to her—the sound of a throat clearing. She turned and found the new footman—Toby? No, that’s right, _Thomas_ —standing there, hand outstretched.

                “Could you spare a fag?” he asked, hopefully. She exhaled with a snort.

                “Get your own.”

                “Aw, come on, Miss. Just the one.”

                “With manners like that? Did your mother teach you to go out and beg?”

                “Can’t see how she could have. She’s dead.” The lad’s hopeful expression never wavered. O’Brien puffed away, nonplussed.

                “Do I look like a Sister of Charity to you? It’s not my job to look after the orphans.”

                “Don’t be stingy,” he wheedled. “It doesn’t suit a lady of quality such as yourself.”

                “Blimey! I’ll give you one to make you _stop_ ,” O’Brien declared, rolling her eyes. Thomas snatched the proffered cigarette, greedily, and pulled out a pack of matches—it took him a few tries to get it right.

                 “First thing I’m getting with my wages is a proper light,” he declared.

                “And your own bleedin’ smokes,” O’Brien reminded him. “You get the one and that’s it.”

                “Ta,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You’re a real ray of sunshine.”

                “And you’re awful gobby for a footman,” O’Brien shot back. “Watch yourself when you talk to your betters.”

                Thomas mimed tugging his forelock, then turned his hand around and gave her a very rude gesture.

                O’Brien couldn’t help it— she laughed.

                “You won’t last a week,” she told him, taking a drag.

                “I’ll take that bet,” he answered, cheerily. “Though I’ll tell you this much—I don’t intend to be a footman for long.”

                “Oh?” O’Brien asked. She shouldn’t be encouraging this—she should’ve ignored the boy in the first place, not let him think she wanted anything to do with him. But now she found she was intrigued by him—and really, it wasn’t as though there was anything else happening to keep her interest these days.

                “Mmm,” he replied, with a secretive smirk. “Just wait and see, mum.”

                “That’s Miss O’Brien to you,” she told him, severely. “And don’t you forget it.”

                Thomas smirked again, like he was going to say something else, when a harried-looking John stuck his head out the back door.

                “Are you skivving off on the _first day_?” he demanded. “Get in here and get to work on this silver or I’ll box your ears!”

                “Keep your hair on, I’m coming,” Thomas murmured. He threw his cigarette down, grinding it out with his foot, then looked up at O’Brien.

                “Thanks again, Miss O’Brien,” he said. “I won’t forget it.”

                O’Brien just snorted.

                Carson did his best to run Thomas ragged over the course of the next few days. O’Brien saw him polishing silver, hauling things up and down the stairs, stoking fires, reaching things on shelves for the more diminutive maids—anything anyone could think of to keep him busy. John and Peter were having the time of their lives, getting Thomas to do the worst jobs they could think up—and then a few that didn’t even exist. He spent an hour fumbling around the downstairs linen storage looking for “the napkins embroidered with the Levinson crest” before O’Brien poked her head in told him not to be stupid. Thomas emerged, dust on his coat and cobwebs in his hair, fuming and swearing revenge.

                Still, he seemed to have a near-supernatural sense for when she chose to take her smoke breaks, and could always manage to find the time to come out and beg one off her. “I should know better than to feed strays,” she groused, but handed over a cigarette to him all the same. Why she indulged him, she really couldn’t say—she should have sent him packing the very first time. Maybe it was because he was the first lad Carson had hired in years who had any kind of brains to speak of. Maybe it was because he had mean streak she found very familiar, always ready to have a laugh over the pack of idiots they were stuck with. Maybe it was because he actually dared to _want_ something, that he was hungry for more than waiting tables and opening doors.

                Maybe it was because there was something not _quite_ right about him, and O’Brien was desperately curious to know what it was.

                “What’s your story, then?” she asked him over a cigarette one day. He shrugged.

                “I’m a domestic servant,” he said, with a hint of bitterness behind the words. “I don’t have a story. Unnoticed and unheard, that’s my job.”

                “Stow it. We’re not the job, you and me.” O’Brien blew out a long stream of smoke. “Come on. You can’t sponge me fags and then give me the brush-off.”

                He leaned against the wall. “What’s there to know? I was a hallboy at Deerfield manor, got promoted to footman, then moved on to bigger and better things.” He indicated the courtyard with a sweep of his arm. “It was smaller, but underneath they’re all the same, these houses. One job’s as same as the other.”

                “And before that? Did you just fall from the sky with an apron on?” O’Brien asked. Thomas’ face darkened.

                “It doesn’t matter where I was before.”

                “Oh? No family?”

                “Told you, my Mum’s dead.” Thomas said, too casually.

                “And that was the end of it?” O’Brien pressed. “You a bastard?” Thomas didn’t rise to the bait.

                “There’s some what would say that, sure,” he answered, coolly. O’Brien just raised an eyebrow and waited, leaning against the wall and taking a long drag. Thomas’ resolve started to crumble under her stare.

                “My dad was a clockmaker,” he finally admitted, with a shrug. 

                “Then how come you’re in service? Got an older brother who took the shop?”

                “Ever been to Manchester?” Thomas asked, flatly. O’Brien didn’t quite follow this train of thought, but she shook her head ‘no’ and let him continue. “You ever go and see the factories there? They’ve got men turning out hundreds of clocks an hour—more clocks than dad ever made in his whole life. There’s not any future doing it the old-fashioned way—none but the workhouse and an early grave.” He pronounced this bitter prophecy with the same lightness as he might use reading through the headlines. “‘Sides, I didn’t fancy a life hunched over a workbench.”

                “And your Da didn’t take it well, when you told him so?” O’Brien asked. Thomas’ face when perfectly blank in a way that said more than any real expression could.

                “Yeah,” he replied, distantly. “It was something like that.”

                Sarah O’Brien knew a lie when she heard one—and well she should, given how many she’d told over the years—but this time she let it drop. Let the lad have a secret—everyone was entitled to at least one.

                 “His loss,” she shrugged, and Thomas favored her with a wry smile.

* * *

 

                His mysterious background wasn’t the only thing peculiar about Thomas. There was the way he followed Elsie Hughes around like a lost puppy, peppering her with the same lines he’d used trying to get a cigarette out of O’Brien the first day. Mrs. Hughes, for some reason O’Brien couldn’t possibly fathom, seemed to tolerate it—giving him only a swat on the arm and a light reprimand for his audacity.

“Away with you!” she’d scold, “I’ll have none of your cheek!” But she said it with a small, warm smile.

It was only when Carson caught him doing it and gave him a stern dressing-down about Knowing Your Place that Thomas was forced to be more discreet in his impudence. He didn’t stop it altogether, though—still finding time to poke his head into her sitting room and remark that she ‘looked like a dream today’ before scampering off. O’Brien rolled her eyes and resolved to throw herself in front of a train if she ever got soft enough to tolerate _that_ kind of idiocy.

                Of course, Mrs. Hughes wasn’t the only one Thomas showed an inappropriate affection to—and hardly the most interesting.

                O’Brien could have kicked herself for not seeing it earlier. Of course, Thomas was much sneakier about it than he was with his teasing, but the signs were there—looks that lasted just a second too long over the breakfast table, an unnecessary brush of hands when receiving a plate of toast or an upstairs tray, a kind of breathless deference whenever the object of his affection was speaking. They were easy to miss, under the circumstances: Peter Kilpatrick embodied the very ideal of first footman, devilishly good-looking with an easy, roguish manner. It didn’t mean anything particularly that young Thomas had been drawn into his orbit.

                But then one day O’Brien was passing by the silver closet and happened to catch sight of the two of them. Thomas must have gotten some polish on his collar, and Peter was trying to rub it off, tongue poking just slightly out of the corner of his mouth, while Thomas stared up at him starry-eyed and leaned in closer— _perilously_ closer, lips slightly parted…

                _Sarah O’Brien, you stupid fool_ , she chided herself. She could at least take comfort in the fact that she was not as stupid a fool as Thomas was about to make himself out to be.

                “Fancy a smoke?” she asked, leaning against the doorframe. Thomas jerked, as if startled out of a trance.

                “We’re quite _busy_ , Miss O’Brien,” he said, with a bite to his voice, but Peter shooed him away.

                “G’wan, have a break—we’re just about finished here, anyhow,” he said.  “Have a smoke before Carson finds you something else to do.” Thomas stood, reluctantly, and followed O’Brien out to yard.

                “I’m not here at your beck and call, you know,” he groused, “I’ve got things I’d like to—“

                “Oh, _lots_ of things you’d like to see to, I’m sure,” O’Brien said, with a knowing look. Thomas took her proffered cigarette, watching her warily.

                “Dunno what you’re on about.”

                “I think you do,” O’Brien said, lighting up. Thomas flicked open his fancy new lighter and took a drag. “You chase after Peter Kilpatrick and you’re going to find yourself with nothing.”

                Thomas somehow went even paler. “I’m not—I’m not _chasing after_ anyone,” he snapped, heatedly.

                O’Brien raised an eyebrow. “But you do fancy him.”

                Thomas’ mouth fell open in horror. “No, I—how _dare_ you! That’s not—“

                “Are you going to stand there and tell me you’re not interested in him—?”

                “I bloody well am, because I’m not some kind of—of—“ he stopped short, shifting uncomfortably, as though he couldn’t bear to say the word.

                O’Brien gave him a flat look. “It’s no use lying to me. It’s written all over your face. It’d be a miracle if I was the only who noticed.”

                Thomas swallowed hard. O’Brien saw that the hand holding his cigarette was shaking. He took a long pull, as if hoping he could stall and think of something to get him out of this, or that she would lose interest and leave it alone. Unfortunately for him, she didn’t give up _near_ that easy.

“Will you give me time to hand in my notice and go quiet?” he finally asked, in a quiet voice. She tilted back her head, exhaling a long stream of smoke.

                “Now, _why_ would I want you to do that?” she said.

                “ ‘Cos—“ he was blinking rapidly, like he was fighting back tears. “ ‘Cos you don’t want me around now.”

                “If that were true I could have gone to Carson ages ago,” she said, matter-of-factly. Thomas looked as though he were dangerously close to crumpling, and she let out a long-suffering sigh. “Calm down, you big girl, I didn’t bring you out here to ruin you. I’ll keep your little secret.”

                This didn’t seem to comfort Thomas, and he eyed her suspiciously. “How come you don’t care that I’m—different?”

                She titled her head back. “Is it _just_ boys, then? No girls?” she asked. He hesitated, then nodded, stony-faced. “Well, it’s no skin off my nose what you get up to. You didn’t invent that kind of thing, you know—and you’re hardly the first to work in a great house.”

                Thomas swallowed, quickly scrubbing his eyes with the back of his hands. “And what—what is it you want from me, then?”

                She knew Thomas was a sharp lad. He knew as well as her that nothing comes for free in this world. “You and me, we do alright,” she said, simply. “That can be enough—for now, at least.”

                He watched her, warily, taking a long moment to study her face for any sign of deception. Then, he broke into a small, shaky smile.

                “Alright,” he said, in a small voice. “It’s a deal.”

                “Good,” she said. “Now you keep your hands to yourself where Peter is concerned—or any of them, you got it?” Thomas whipped around, frantically checking to make sure no one had heard, before turning back to her.

                “It’s no business of yours,” he hissed. “I am what I am, and I won’t—“

                O’Brien rolled her eyes. “Blimey, you’re thick as a post! It’s a miracle you got it this far. Listen, you can be stupid or you can be queer, but you can’t be both—not if you want to survive here.”

                “You don’t have to be _rude_ about it,” Thomas sulked.  

                “I think I do, to get it into your skull—look, what I’m trying to tell you is this: _don’t foul your own nest_ ,” O’Brien said firmly. Thomas looked like he was going to protest, but she headed him off. “None of them share your _interests_ , and even if they did—you think there’s anything that happens in this house that stays secret for long?” She fixed him with a look, and Thomas was forced to shake his head. “You want to fool around with blokes—“

                “ _Would you keep it down—?!_ ”

                “—then you go far away from here, you understand?” She finished, as though she hadn’t heard. “Not to the village. Not Thirsk or Ripon, neither. You go to York—they’ve got places for those what with…unorthodox tastes.”

                “You don’t have to keep _sayin’_ it like that,” Thomas groused, but he seemed interested. “How am I s’pposed to get time to go to York? Its miles away.”

                O’Brien shrugged. “You get holidays.”

                “Not that many!”

                “Dunno what you’re shouting at me for, I don’t make the rules,” she said, flicking her ash. Thomas glared at her, exhaling through his nose.

                “I’m supposed to live my life like a bloody monk?”

                “Can’t get caught if you don’t do anything wrong to begin with,” she shrugged, but Thomas’ expression grew stormy.

                “It’s not _wrong_ ,” Thomas said, firmly. He wouldn’t budge on this—all the indignities of his life, from his work as a servant to whatever private hurts he carried couldn’t break him of his pride. It was clear that should something happen and he lost everything, he would have this one last thing buried inside him—this singular, persistent belief. “ _I’m_ not wrong.”

                “Carson won’t see it that way,” O’Brien answered, simply. Thomas scowled deeply, but didn’t try and argue. “Don’t pout—he won’t live forever.” _That_ got his attention. He looked up at her, curiously.

                “No one does,” he replied, cautiously.

                “No,” O’Brien said, “but the day may come when you find yourself in a position where no one can touch you, no matter how many footmen you take a shine to.” Thomas seemed intrigued by the idea, or at least interested enough not to try and shush her.

                “Yeah?” he said. “How do I manage that?”

                “That’s the tricky part, isn’t it?” she answered. “But I tell you this—Lord Grantham’s one of them what believes in his grand and glorious burden of nobility. You get in close with him, and he can see you’re well taken care of.”

                “How?” Thomas asked, looking even paler than usual. O’Brien resisted the urge to give him a clip on the ear.

                “Not the way you’re thinking,” she snapped. “Make yourself indispensable to this household—to his Lordship in particular. Find yourself a position, and build your fortress there.”

                “Like what?”

                “My God, you expect me to do everything _for_ you, don’t you?” she blew out a long stream of smoke, irritated. “Look, all I’m saying is I’ve been a lady’s maid here for eight years—and I won’t leave until her ladyship says I do. And she _won’t,_ ‘cos I’ve done my job and done it right. Nobody in this here gives a damn about me, but if they want me gone they can’t do nothing about it. I’m safe as houses.”

                 Thomas mulled this over. “I think I understand.”

                “See that you do,” she said. “Keep your nose out of trouble and your hands to yourself, and you could go far.”

                “You have my solemn oath,” Thomas said, finding his cheeky smile once again.

* * *

 

                But as the months went by, Thomas started to get cocky. Oh, he was never outright foolish about it—but there were times when his eyes wandered to a handsome stranger, when he was just a half-second too slow in joining in with John and Peter’s lad talk—and later, when he stopped joining in altogether, dismissing their conjectures about this or that maiden’s particular virtues with a shrug. Then there were the half-days he just barely made it back to the Abbey in time for upstairs dinner, his lips swollen and his hair mussed…

                “You need to keep your head down,” O’Brien scolded him. “You’ll end up in the Reading Gaol.”

                Thomas just blew out a column of white smoke. “I give my word not to chase after a Marquess’ son,” he replied, flippantly, and wouldn’t hear any more about it.

                One sweltering August night, the Crawleys were off at Duneagle and all the lads, house and garden alike, had gone to the Grantham Arms for a drink. They were late—later than Carson had instructed, and O’Brien watched them try and sneak past the old guard-dog one by one and fail. She tried to ignore the gnawing worry in the back of her mind as the minutes ticked by and Thomas didn’t arrive for his due scolding.

                Finally, she’d had enough of waiting—she headed to courtyard and sure enough—there was Thomas, hat in hands, sniffling like a child.

                “Come off it,” she said, brusquely. “What’s all this about, you big—?” Thomas turned to her, and she nearly gasped—his tear-stained face wasn’t nearly as shocking as his quickly-purpling eye, rapidly swelling closed.

                “My God,” she breathed. “Who’s done it?” She was on him in an instant, both hands on his face—Thomas tried to squirm from her grasp but she held firm, tilting his battered face towards the light. “Who’s done this to you?”

                “N-nobody, it’s nothing—“

                “Like hell it is!” O’Brien hissed, fiercely. Thomas squeezed his good eye shut, but couldn’t stop a fresh stream of tears from leaking out of it.

                “John,” he finally admitted, in a small voice.

                “What? In God’s name, w _hy_?”

                “He—he—“ Thomas stuttered. O’Brien released his face, and he started to shake. “He _saw_ me.”

                “Doing what?” O’Brien demanded. Thomas looked down, shaking his head. “Thomas, what’d he catch you doing?”

                “I should’ve listened to you,” he said, his voice quavering. “I—I’ve done something I shouldn’t have…”

                “Thomas,” O’Brien said. She knelt down next to him, heedless of the way her skirt dragged in the grime. “Tell me what you’ve done right now.” He tried to pull away, but she grabbed his shoulders and gave him a shake. “Go on! Spit it out!”

                “There’s—the new boy in the post office…and we…” he trailed off, and she felt her gut twist.

                “You idiot!” O’Brien hissed. “I warned you! I bloody well—“

                “It’s no use telling me _now_!” Thomas shouted, setting off a wave of fresh sobs. O’Brien shushed him harshly, but the windows in the house stayed dark.

                “Go on, then, what’d you do?”

                “We went outside, ‘round the back of the pub—I thought we had _time_ —but John came to fetch me, and he _saw_ me—“

                “Can you say it was a mistake?” O’Brien asked, mind racing. “Say he didn’t know what he saw—?”

                “John Stepney bloody well knows what a kiss looks like!” Thomas hissed, furiously. “I didn’t see him coming—he snuck up on us, grabbed me by the shoulder and threw me down—at least George got away, he booked it the second he realized we were found out—“

                “Did John say anything?”

                “Not at first—just knocked me around, called me names…” Thomas wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Said I was—ruining the reputation of the House, that if I was found out they’d say him and Peter and all them were queers too…said he’d…” Thomas’ voice quavered, “he said go to _Carson_ …”

                “Will he?” O’Brien asked, urgently. Thomas shook his head.

                “I don’t…I don’t think so…I told him it were the first time I’d ever—told him it were a mistake, that I’d too much to drink and didn’t know what I were doing—I think…” he trailed off. “I _think_ he believed it.” He sniffled. “But he told me if I stepped so much as a toe out of line, then…” he cut himself off with a small, miserable sound.

O’Brien’s thoughts raced. “This is bad,” she said, “make no mistake about it. It’s your own fault—“

“You bloody well told me so, I know!” Thomas snapped back. “You’re having a real laugh now—!”

                “Shut it, would you? I’m trying to get you out of this!” O’Brien pressed her knuckles to her mouth, longing for a smoke. “John’s got to go. It’s either him or you.”

                “But if he doesn’t tell—“

                “He _knows_ ,” O’Brien said, sharply. “As long as he’s here you’ll be living in the shadow of the prison. He’ll have a hold on you ‘till the end of your days. If you want to get anywhere, you’ll have to be rid of him—and rid of him in a way that makes sure he stays quiet.”

                “But _how_?” Thomas asked, miserably.

                O’Brien shook her head. “He’s got secrets,” she said, mulling it over. “There’s no one in this house who doesn’t. Find one— find one that’s worse than yours and _use_ it.”

                “But—“

                The back door creaked open, and Thomas shut his mouth.

                “Miss O’Brien,” Mrs. Hughes voice rang out. “Thomas is in a great deal of trouble, and I hope you aren’t—“ she marched towards them but stopped short, gasping at Thomas’ face.

                “Thomas! Gracious heavens, what _happened_ to you?”

                O’Brien gave him a meaningful look. Perhaps Thomas understood, or perhaps he just didn’t need prompting—he burst into tears again, as if on cue.

                “He was mugged, Mrs. Hughes,” O’Brien lied, smoothly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

                “Oh, how _dreadful_ ,” Mrs. Hughes tutted. She walked over and took Thomas’s face in her hands, same as O’Brien had—though perhaps she was more gentle about it. “Poor thing,” she murmured, turning his face side to side. “Did you know who it was?”

                Thomas hesitated, shooting a glance at O’Brien. “No,” he said, “no they—I never seen them before. They—kicked me around a little, but somethin’ spooked ‘em and they ran off before they could get anything…”

                “Well, thank heavens for that!” She murmured. Thomas snuffled, and Mrs. Hughes swept him up into an embrace. Thomas looked over her shoulder at O’Brien, who gave him an approving nod. Smart lad—it was a good story. No missing witnesses, nothing that was difficult to explain. He could wriggle his way out of this yet.

                And if he did…

                Well. It could be useful, having someone around who saw things the way she did—and, more importantly, who just happened to owe her a favor or three.

                “Maybe he should go inside, Mrs. Hughes,” she suggested, blandly. “If you could look after that eye of his, I could go talk to the lads and see if they saw anything.”

                Mrs. Hughes stayed where she was for a moment, rubbing slow circles on Thomas’ back. “Are you ready to come inside, Thomas?” she asked, her voice gentle. He nodded, hiccupping slightly. She helped him to his feet, cooing and clucking all the while.

                “I’ll get Thomas settled in his room,” she said, and O’Brien fought to hide her smile. “Mr. Carson will send Peter and John down, if he’s not still scolding them for their tardiness.”

                O’Brien locked eyes with Thomas for a moment, and he gave her an almost imperceptible nod. He understood—John’s room would be unguarded as long as he was questioned. She couldn’t quite keep her mouth from curling up in satisfaction.

                Yes, Thomas was exactly the kind of lad she could use around here. She’d be a fool to let him get the sack.  

                “Up you go,” she said, “and don’t you worry, lad—we’ll take care of the rest.”

                 She didn’t even have to fake the warmth in her voice.


	9. Live and Learn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anna finally clues Daisy in

“That’s the last of it,” Thomas said, setting down a tray of china. “We’re all cleared in the dining room.”

                Mrs. Hughes gave him a long look. “Then head upstairs and go to bed,” she decided. “You’ve got an early start ahead of you tomorrow. We’ll take care of everything from here.” Thomas nodded.

                “Thank you, Mrs. Hughes.” He straightened, looking around the kitchen. “That’s—well. This is it, then. If I don’t you see lot tomorrow…”

He trailed off, and for the briefest moment he looked uncertain—perhaps even lost. There was a pause in the kitchen, a single breath of hesitation— 

“Well, then I won’t see much of you, will I?” he concluded, his usual cool expression back into place. “Night, all. It’s been a _pleasure_.”

                With that he disappeared into the corridor, with nothing more than vanishing thump of his feet against the steps as he headed up to mark his departure.

                “Well,” Mrs. Hughes remarked. “He’s off to war, then.”

                “I thought Thomas was going to serve out his notice?” Daisy asked, not looking up from her pot.

                “That was before the thing had been officially declared,” Mrs. Hughes explained, gently. “When the fighting was still a ways off. Now Dr. Clarkson says they need him and the others straight away.”

                “Straight away, sure,” Mrs. Patmore snorted. “Maybe Lord Kirtchener will teach him all the manners Mr. Carson couldn’t. See if being in a battle doesn’t knock him down a few pegs!”

                “They’re saying it will be a short war,” Anna piped up, over her tea. “Over before Christmas—he may never even see any fighting at that rate.”

                “Well, then maybe they’ll ship him off to somewhere on the other side of the earth,” Mrs. Patmore replied. “And good riddance, too.”

                “Be kind,” Mrs. Hughes chided, lightly. “He’s off to serve his country.”

                “Hopefully he does it with more grace than he ever served here.” Mrs. Patmore muttered, under her breath. “Daisy, how is the pot coming?”

                “Almost finished, Mrs. Patmore!” she answered, burnishing it with a cloth. She looked up from her work. “D’ya really think it’ll all be over that soon? And he won’t see any battles?”

                Anna shrugged. “Who knows? I hope so, at least. I don’t think there’s anything grand or glorious about a war.”

                “I hope so too,” Daisy said, looking thoughtful. “I hope Thomas doesn’t have to go at all.”

                “Oh? That’s very generous of you,” Mrs. Patmore said, almost suspiciously. “After he treated you so wrong--“

                Daisy wrinkled her nose. “I only mean I don’t want him to go to battle and get killed,” she said, “not that I’m _sweet_ on him or anything—not anymore.”

                “Good,” Mrs. Patmore grunted. “Because heaven knows he was never interested in _you_.”

                Mrs. Patmore was could be rough with Daisy, they all knew, but usually the sharp words just rolled off the steadfast girl like water from a duck’s back. But tonight, for whatever reason, though, these particular words did not. Daisy froze, her lips parting slightly as the barb landed home. Her lower lip wobbled dangerously, and, to everyone’s horror, her eyes filled with tears.

                “Daisy,” Mrs. Hughes started, gently and only slightly exasperated, “whatever’s the matter?”

                “You don’t—“ her voice caught in her throat, “you don’t have to say it like _that_ —“

                “Oh my Lord, girl, what’s gotten _into_ you—?” Mrs. Patmore started, perhaps a touch harshly, and it was a touch too much. Daisy burst into tears and ran out of the kitchen, hand over her mouth in an attempt to hold back her sobs. Mrs. Patmore watched her go, stunned.

                “What did I say?” she asked. Mrs. Hughes shook her head.

                “You’ve got to be more gentle with that girl,” she scolded, “she’s a simple little thing.”

                Mrs. Patmore rolled her eyes. “I suppose I’ve got to go calm her down now—“

                “Let me go talk to her,” Anna said, setting her cup of tea down. “I think she could use a friendly ear right now.”

                “Go on then,” Mrs. Hughes said, shooing her along. “Sort her out, if you can. The war hasn’t even been on for a week and already the house is going to pieces!”

* * *

 

                Daisy was sitting on the back porch, crying into her apron. Anna settled down next to her, gently, placing a hand against her back.

                “Daisy, what’s wrong?” she asked, in her most soothing voice. Daisy just shook her head, the tears only coming harder for all of Anna’s soothing.

 “You’re not—still keen on Thomas, are you?” she asked, hesitantly.

                “No!” Daisy hiccupped. “I’m not _that_ stupid!”

                “Then what’s all this for, then?” Anna asked, patiently. She reached in her apron pocket and pulled out a crumpled handkerchief, offering it to Daisy, who took it reluctantly.

                “I know—“ Daisy started, snuffling. “I know—that I’m not—I’m not _pretty_ , or _sophisticated_ , or…or…” her eyes filled with tears again. “—or anything that a boy woul’ be interested in, but Mrs. Patmore—she doesn’t ‘ave to rub it in, like—“

                “Rub it in? Wherever is this coming from?” Anna asked, genuinely bewildered. “Daisy, you _are_ pretty—and smart, and a hard worker, and all kinds of things! Who told you different?” Anna’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

 “Was it Thomas?” She asked. “Because if he did—“

But Daisy shook her head. “No, no, he didn’t—say nothin’.”

“Then why all of this?”

                Daisy hesitated, wringing the handkerchief in her hands. “It’s only that—I don’t _like_ Thomas anymore, now that I know how nasty he is…but now I know that he was just—that I wasn’t ever the kind of girl he could ever have—“ Daisy was close to sobbing again, “—I’ll never be one of those girls!”

                “What girls?” Anna asked, puzzled.

                “Sophisticated girls! Ones that have—traveled, and went to school, and know things and dress smart and—the kind of girls Thomas would actually be sweet for!”

                The last puzzle piece clicked into place, and Anna had to smother a laugh. “Daisy, you silly goose,” she said, struggling to hold back her giggles and be sensitive to the girl’s hurt. “You’ve got it all wrong! That isn’t what Mrs. Patmore meant at _all_.”  

                “Yeah?” Daisy hiccupped. “Then what _did_ she mean?”

                Anna couldn’t believe it had fallen to _her_ to give this talk. She pressed her lips together, trying to think of the most tactful way to say it—both to avoid hurting Daisy’s feelings and to keep herself from dissolving into a fit of the giggles. She took Daisy’s hands in her own, and the girl looked up at her with those big, sad eyes of hers.

                “Daisy,” she said, softly. “There isn’t anything about you that’s unattractive or anything like that. You’re perfectly wonderful, and any boy would be lucky to have you as his sweetheart.”  

                “Don’t be daft—“ Daisy muttered, and Anna squeezed her hands.

                “I mean it. You’re lovely in every way. Thomas—“ she bit her lip, then decided to just take the plunge and get it over with: “Thomas doesn’t like _you_ because he doesn’t like _girls_.”

                Daisy’s brow furrowed. “Doesn’t _like_ girls? How do you mean?”

                Anna resisted to the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Not like—in courting or romance. He’s not interested.”

                Daisy blinked. “Not at all?”

                “Not at all,” Anna confirmed. “It’s nothing to do with you in particular.”

                “But…” Daisy reached up and scrubbed some of her tears away, turning this piece of information over in her mind. “But he’s so good at dancin’, and _flirtin’_ —“ her cheeks flushed a little, and Anna groaned internally.

                “He’s got lots of practice dancing and flirting,” Anna said, carefully. Daisy opened her mouth to protest, but Anna quickly headed her off “—with boys. He likes _boys_ , Daisy.” Daisy’s mouth fell open, and her eyes went as wide as they could go.

                “Oh,” she said, faintly. Then, as the full impact of Anna’s words dawned on her: “Oh! _Oh!_ Tha’s what—everybody meant when they said—!”

                “Yes,” Anna headed her off, quickly. “They—were trying to break it to you gently, but yes.”

                “But—“ Daisy looked as though she had a million questions, and Anna didn’t feel like she was particularly qualified to answer any one of them. “But—“ Something occurred to her, and her face fell. “Am I the last person in this whole _house_ to know?”

                Anna made a noncommittal gesture. “I don’t think William or Gwen or the other kitchen maids know—none of the hallboys, neither. Otherwise they would have told you, I’m sure.” This didn’t seem to comfort Daisy; she screwed up her face in anger.

                “So—were you all were having a laugh at how stupid I am—?”

                “No! No, not at all! Mrs. Patmore _tried_ to tell you,” Anna said, putting her arm around Daisy’s shoulder. “But—but you were so _thrilled_ , and none of us could bear to break your heart.”

                “So you let me make a fool out of myself,” Daisy muttered, darkly. Anna smiled.

                “Everyone looks foolish when they’re young and in love. It’s a rite of passage.”

                Daisy looked like she wanted to stay mad, but found she couldn’t. _She really is a sweet girl_ , Anna thought. She propped her chin on her fist, as though she were quietly working something out. There was a few moment s of silence before she turned back to Anna, looking thoughtful.

                “So who told _you_? About Thomas, I mean.”

                Anna shrugged. “I’ve known Thomas quite a bit longer than you have. I noticed—things.”

                Daisy thought on that quietly. “I didn’t,” she said. “He—he seems so _normal_ …”

                “Well, he has too, doesn’t he?” Anna said, giving her a little pat on the shoulder. “Otherwise he’d lose his job.”

                Daisy frowned. “But Mrs. Patmore knows,” she said, slowly. “Which means she’s told Mrs. Hughes, and if Mrs. Hughes knows that means _she’s_ told Mr. Carson, and if Mr. Carson knows then his Lordship knows for sure…”

                Anna blinked. For all her simple manner, Daisy could be quite perceptive in her own way. “So?”

                “So who’s he got to keep it a secret from?”

                Anna opened her mouth, then shut it again. Perceptive, _indeed_. “I suppose you’re right—it’s not really much of a secret, is it?” She pursed her lips, choosing her next words carefully. “But you understand why he wouldn’t want people to know—“

                “Obviously!” Daisy rolled her eyes. “But everyone _does_ —or everyone that matters, I s’ppose.”

                “Well,” Anna hesitated, “no one’s actually…caught him in the act—“

                “But then how do you—“

                “Daisy,” she said, fixing her with a firm look. “When you were at the fair, did he so much as hold your hand?”

                Daisy’s shoulders slumped. “Not even for half a minute,” she grumbled. She was so perfectly put out that Anna struggled not to laugh. “I can’t _believe_ I was such a fool! I got tricked by a—“

                “Don’t,” Anna said, patting her on the shoulder. “Don’t stoop to his level. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of—he’s the one who should feel dreadful, playing with your heart like that, but you’re better than him. Don’t fight fire with fire.”

                Daisy huffed. “Why me?” she asked, after a long moment. “How come he picks on me? I’ve never done anything to him, not in my whole _life_!”

                Anna pursed her lips together. “I think,” she said, slowly, “that he was more concerned with making William jealous than anything else.”

                Daisy’s eyebrows knit together. “William?” she asked. “He hasn’t done anything to Thomas neither!”

                Anna shrugged. “People like Thomas can’t be happy when other people are happy,” she said. “And taking you to the fair would have made William very, _very_ happy, I think.” 

                Daisy’s eyes widened again. “Me?” she squeaked. Anna laughed.

                “Yes _you_ , silly goose! I told you there were plenty of boys who’d think you were special!”

                Daisy put her face in her hands and groaned. “I’ve been _such_ a fool.”

“Well, now you know,” Anna said, confidentally. “And now that you’ve figured out Thomas’ tricks you won’t be tricked by them again.”

                Daisy sighed. “I just wished I hadn’t fallen for it in the first place,” she grumbled. Anna smiled.

                “That’s how we learn. Anyways, Thomas is going, and you won’t have to worry about him playing nasty tricks on you anymore.” Anna stood, stretching. “Oof! I don’t fancy that seat, not at all. Let’s go inside and go to bed, alright?”

                Daisy stood, and then grabbed her in an embrace. “Thank you, Anna,” she said, “thanks ever so much—I won’t be silly anymore, I promise.”

                Anna patted her on the back, and kept the thought _don’t make promises you can’t keep_ to herself.

* * *

 

                At first, Daisy hadn’t liked her early morning duties at all. The Abbey could be scary in the dark (and it was _always_ dark when Daisy woke up), full of shadows and lots of places for a ghost or a madman or anything to hide in and pop out and scare her—not to mention the more likely danger of waking one of the Crawleys (Daisy was especially afraid of Lady Mary) and receiving a scolding from Mrs. Hughes when she found out.

                 But now Daisy found she liked her morning time—waking up was dreadful, obviously, but once she stumbled awake there was something to be said for the pre-dawn hours. The house was quiet, quiet in a way it wouldn’t be until the dead of night when everyone was asleep once again, and it was peaceful. The sun just started to peak over the horizon when she finished stoking the fires, sending early beams into the Abbey windows and painting the marble and gold within with brilliant light. She found she could think most clearly this way, without hustle and bustle and noise and someone _always_ needing her to hurry up and get back to work. And she had been thinking, this particular morning—she’d lain awake last night running her conversation with Anna over and over in her head, trying to make sense of all that she’d learned.

                Daisy was so caught up in her ruminations she almost didn’t notice a lone figure tucked away in the shadows of the courtyard, huddled in the gloom as she went to collect more coal for the downstairs fires.

                “Thomas?” she called, but he didn’t answer. Thomas was wedged back into the courtyard, in a distant corner. He had on his going-out suit—the same one he’d worn to the fair—but his hat was in his hands. He turned it over and over again, worrying it with a thumb— _if he’s not careful_ , Daisy thought, _he’ll worry a hole right through it_.

                “Thomas?” she asked, walking right up to him. He started, as though he hadn’t heard her coming, and scrambled to his feet. “Whatever are you doing up at this hour?”

                “I’m leaving aren’t I?” he answered, with his usual bite. “Lord Grantham’s having old Branson drive me down to get the six o’clock to Richmond.”

                “That’s kind of his Lordship,” Daisy said. Thomas snorted in response. He took out a cigarette and lit it—the brief tongue of flame cast a strange light over his face in the pre-dawn gloom, making him seen much paler than usual.

                “Are you nervous?” Daisy asked. Thomas flicked his eyes at her, over his cigarette—they were sharp and unkind, but that didn’t stop her. “About going to war, I mean?”

                “Be a bit stupid of me to back out now, wouldn’t it?” was all he said in response. “Do you reckon I’m a coward?”

                “No,” Daisy answered, crossly. “I think anyone would be a _bit_ scared to go fight a war.”

                “Well, I’m not,” Thomas told her, firmly. “I’m not going to _fight_ it now, am I? Me and Clarkson are going to stitch up the infantry lads and send them on their way, make a name for myself. Then,” he gestured with his chin. “I’ll never have to see _this_ place again.”

                “You think it will be done by Christmas, like they say?” Daisy asked. Thomas shrugged.

                “Doesn’t matter to me how long it lasts. I get paid until they call it quits.”

                “You could die,” Daisy said, quietly. Thomas snorted.

                “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he sneered. “You and all them in there. Well, joke’s on you, I don’t have any intention of getting myself shot—and even if I did, anything’s better than dying old and grey and still serving drinks like Carson.”

                Daisy just rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to be nasty—there’s no one even awake to see it but me,” she said.

Thomas just scoffed.

“I’m not angry with you anymore,” she said, after a long silence. “For trickin’ me. I was, for a while. But now I’m not.”

Thomas shot her a disbelieving look. “I don’t care.”

“D’ya want to know why I’m not angry?”

“I just said,” he told her, impatiently, “I _don’t care_ —“

“It’s ‘cos I may have been daft to believe you, but I know better now—and I can only learn more things,” she interrupted, leveling him with a glare. “But you? You’ll always be _nasty,_ and you’ll always lose out because of it.”

                  Thomas’ lip curled in disdain. “So _what_ —“

                “So,” she said, softly. “Maybe if you learn your lesson, then next time you won’t have to leave with no one to say goodbye to you.”

                Thomas looked stunned. His face fell, and for a moment he didn’t look aloof or smug or superior at all. Then something came across his face, like a heavy door slamming shut, and the sneer was back.

                “Like I care if what any of you lot think of me!” he snarled. Just a few months ago, his tone would have made Daisy quail. Now she just turned, loading her bucket with more coal.

                “Have it your own way,” she said. “But just in case you don’t come back—I don’t hold it against you or anything. Anna says you can’t never be happy—“

                “Anna should mind her own business—!” he snapped, fiercely, but Daisy plunged ahead:

                “But I hope you are,” she finished, quietly. Thomas’ eyes narrowed, as though he thought it were a trick—as though he were waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Even if it’s only so you aren’t so nasty anymore.” She straightened, setting her bucket against her hip, and looking him squarely in the face. “Goodbye, Thomas. Good luck in the war, and all that.”

                She didn’t expect him to thank her, and he didn’t. She hefted her coal bucket and went inside without another word. She liked to think that as she passed by, she saw his expression soften, if only for a moment.

                But she hadn’t given him a proper look, and Mrs. Patmore was always saying she was a silly girl who hoped for silly things.


	10. Last Post and Chorus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armistice Day 1918, Thomas pays his respects to his fallen patient

                “Hullo, Lieutenant Courtenay,” Thomas said, with a cheer he didn’t quite feel. “Mind if I sit down?”

                He received no answer, but settled himself down next to the white marble marker all the same. It was a brisk November day, but the noontime sun was shining brightly, warming the grass and rows of silent headstones in the parish graveyard. The stone of Edward’s memorial nearly sparkled in the sunshine—someone had kept it clean, and for that Thomas was more grateful than he’d ever admit.

                “I brought you something,” he announced, easing his bundle of sunflowers from under his arm. He lay them at the foot of the marker. It wasn’t a grave, not when Edward’s family had taken his body away to Devon for his final rest, but it was all Thomas had.

“I thought they might—liven the place up a bit. Dunno. I s’pose you think I’m daft, bringing you something you can’t see… though maybe you _can_ see again, now that....” he let the thought hang in the air, awkwardly. “Well, _now_ , anyways.”

 Thomas gave a little shrug. “Dunno how it all works. If you were here, you’d say I should have at least brought you something that smells nice…” he trailed off again, busying himself with positioning the flowers so their heads all turned upwards, a fiercely cheerful yellow against the green grass.

                “There. Nice and cheery, isn’t it?” He brought his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and settling in. Edward’s memorial was in the corner of the churchyard, tucked away from the older graves, and set slightly apart from Downton’s other war dead. It was a elegant thing—simple in shape, carved with his name, regiment, and some platitude about his gallantry. It had been Lady Sibyl’s doing, of course—she’d begged and bullied Lord Grantham into allowing it, and if Thomas ever caught old Travis grumbling about having to honor a suicide on sacred ground he’s break his jaw for him so he couldn’t grumble no more.

                “I just wanted to come by today and tell you the news,” he said, quietly. “The war’s over, now. Or—they decided to end it before, but now it’s _official_ —signed and sealed with a bow on top. I s’pose you already know that, though—but if you don’t… here’s me telling you.”

Thomas pressed his lips together—stupid. This was stupid. _He_ was stupid. But what else was he supposed to do? He wasn’t one for quiet reflection, whatever that meant.

“Major Clarkson let me have the rest of the day to myself, after his Lordship’s little ceremony. Said I could go celebrate, but…” he flicked his eyes up to the silent marker. “It’s not as if I’m not glad. I _am_ —who isn’t? Surely even old Fritz is breathing a sigh of relief, now that he doesn’t have to go through with it anymore.” He tilted his head back, letting the sun warm his face for a moment. “Can’t very well be a sore loser when they _started_ the whole thing, can they?”

 He sighed. “It just don’t _feel_ much like winning,” he admitted, in a low voice. “The hospital’s got to stay open, ‘cos all the men are still wounded. We’re due for one or two more, before—before no one will ever get wounded again. So there’s that.” He rolled his head forward again, squinting against the sun. “Seems like winning should feel more like—I dunno. Like a triumph. Like there was something to be _won_ in the first place. Four years and what’ve I got? A hand like ground beef and some shiny medals.” He blew out his breath, roughly, and scowled at the ground.

 “Couldn’t have stopped it sooner, could they?” he asked, bitterly. “Couldn’t have called it off by Christmas, like they promised? Finished it up before…” he didn’t finish that thought. He couldn’t bear to.

All of it—the blood, the screams, the mangled limbs and lifeless bodies—all to move some lines on a map.

“D’ya mind if I have a smoke?” he asked, trying to pretend like his voice wasn’t thin and quavering. “I just—I know it’s not terribly _reverent_ , but…” he pulled out his cigarette and lit it with shaking fingers, relishing the rush of the first inhale. The village was quiet—he had wondered if there would be jubilation, people in the streets, but everything was still in the churchyard. No distant singing or cheers found him here, no insects buzzed, no birds sang. Perhaps even the dumb beasts of the earth were tired of this war—too tired to be properly glad it was finished.

“Miss you,” he said, quietly, after a long moment. “I don’t…I don’t suppose you miss _me_ …” he let out a short, humorless laugh. “Why would you? I’m just the prick they had reading your letters…” he scooted himself over, close enough that he could uncurl his legs and lay down next to Edward’s marker. He laced his fingers behind his head, cigarette dangling from his lips as he looked up at the blue sky.

“But I do miss you, wherever you are. I hope you’re not here, listening to me talk,” he said, quietly. “Can’t—can’t think of anything worse than listenin’ to _me_ talk your ear off. Maybe you’re off haunting the grounds at Chatsworth—see how Jack likes _that_!” he mused, but he couldn’t bring himself to laugh at that idea.

 “No, no haunting,” he decided. The idea of Edward roaming the lonely woods forever, even the ones he’d loved so much in life, made his heart ache. “I hope you’re somewhere far away—somewhere like…” he turned that thought over, having never given much thought to what an ideal afterlife might look like. He knew clouds and cherubs with harps were out of the question—Edward would hate all that, and for him it had never been an option. “The seaside? Or—I dunno, you like to fish. It doesn’t matter, really—just somewhere that’s not this place.”

He exhaled, taking his cigarette in hand and rolling over to stare at the silent stone marker. “This is a gloomy place, isn’t it? Lonely. I should know.” He was probably getting grass stains on his uniform, and he honestly didn’t care—the war was over. Pressed and tidy Sergeant Barrow, sharp like the corner of a hospital bed, was nothing more than an illusion—in the trenches they’d never been free of the mud. “I know all about lonely places.” He thought for a minute, puffing quietly away at his smoke. “Is that what you were afraid of, being alone?” he asked, softly. “Being wheeled into some dim corner and left there gather dust? ‘Thanks every so much, Lieutenant, but we’ve no use for you now that our stupid bloody war wrecked your eyes’.” Thomas ground his cigarette into the ground, scowling.

“Can’t say I blame you—there’s nobody here now, is there? They used you up and now they’re done with you. They’re done with _us_. They’ll forget, those of them that can. People shouldn’t be allowed to leave you alone—to forget you. They should have to remember….but they won’t.” He reached over and trailed his fingertips against the stone, cool to the touch despite the noontime sun beaming down on it. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Seems pointless, doesn’t it? It’s all so pointless…”

He trailed off, lolling his head backwards against the cool grass. “Wish you hadn’t left me,” he said, in a rough voice just barely above a whisper. “I would’ve made sure you were made sure they took care of you at Farley Hall, I swear it. I _would’ve_.” He stared up at the sun, though it made his eyes water, an clenched fist. “I wouldn’t have let you get tossed in some dank attic and left to rot.”

He swallowed hard. “I would’ve told you—“

“Sergeant Barrow?”

Thomas started, scrambling up to a seated position. “Mrs. Crawley!” he blurted. “Where—“ _Where the bloody hell did you come from?_ he stopped himself from saying. She peered down at him, looking vaguely concerned.

“Are you quite alright, Sergeant?”

“Yes—yes mum,” he muttered, brushing an invisible blade of grass from his uniform. He felt his cheeks flush at being found in such a vulnerable position. He braced his hands against the ground, ready to lift himself to his feet, saying “I was just—“

“No, please— don’t get up,” she said, waving her hand. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. In fact, I was rather hoping I could join you.” She lowered herself, with a grace Thomas wouldn’t have expected from a woman of her age, and settled on the ground knees-together, laid to the side, feet tucked beneath her skirts. “Did you bring these?” she asked, running a careful finger over the sunflowers’ petals.

Thomas nodded, warily.

She smiled—she had a nice smile, Mrs. Crawley; it made her eyes crinkle at the edges. “They’re lovely,” she said, in a gentle voice. “What a lovely thing to think of, on a day like today.” She took a moment to look out over the graveyard, at the newest patch of silent white crosses. “I’m glad someone else had the same thought as I did, to come tell the lads that the war is over for good.” Thomas just nodded again, not quite able to meet her eyes. “And it’s so good to see our poor Lieutenant Courtenay has a marker of his own.”

“It was Nurse Crawley’s doing,” he said, quietly. “It was proper decent of her.” He and Lady Sybil were the only ones who’d cared for Edward, who’d given a damn about him—they were the ones who needed to remember him. Perhaps he needed this more than Lady Sybil did; he wondered if she knew that before he had, known it when she went to demand he be enshrined at the church. She was nice like that—she had long been his favorite Crawley, and he privately thought that he wouldn’t mind working at the Abbey too much if _she_ was the one destined to be mistress of Downton.

But then, that was what made Lady Sybil his favorite: she never wanted that destiny in the first place.

“It was,” Mrs. Crawley agreed. “Sybil is a dear thing.” She pondered the marker for a moment, turning back to Thomas. “Did you know him well?”

Something about the question made Thomas bristle. “Not well enough, apparently,” he muttered, angrily. “If I _had_ —“ he stopped himself short, closing his mouth with a snap.

Mrs. Crawley’s eyes softened. He _hated_ that look—though at least he believed this one was genuine, coming from her. “It was hardly your fault,” she said. “We’re all haunted by the patients we’ve lost—the ones who just weren’t meant to pull through. It took me quite a long time to learn to let them go…but in the end, I’m afraid we must.”

Thomas set his jaw. “Here weren’t just a patient. Not to me.”

“And that meant the world to him, I’m sure,” Mrs. Crawley said, gently. “But now he’s gone, Sergeant. Don’t carry the dead.  Lieutenant Courtenay wouldn’t want to be a weight around your neck.”

Thomas didn’t answer, blinking rapidly.

“I’m not going to forget him,” he said, hoarsely.

“And you never will,” Mrs. Crawley said. “But remember the time you shared on this earth, not the way he left it.”

“But he _wouldn’t_ have left it, if—“

Mrs. Crawley smiled, but she looked very sad. “If ‘ifs’ and ‘ands’ were pots and pans,” she recited, wryly “there’s be no work for footmen’s hands.”

Thomas scowled. “That’s not how it goes,” he muttered, hoarsely.

“Isn’t it?” she asked, just a little too innocently. She had been spending far too much time with Old Lady Grantham. Thomas just set his jaw and looked away. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her face fall.

“I’m terribly sorry,” she said, in a much softer tone. “I don’t mean to make fun. I know…” she trailed off. “Well. I suppose you’ll simply have to take my word for it that I know the feeling. This wasn’t my first war—though I do hope, with all my heart, that it will be my last.”

Thomas didn’t answer that. They sat there for a moment, quietly, as Mrs. Crawley gave him a moment to compose himself.

 “I suppose I came out here today because…because I know how easily one of these boys could have been my Matthew,” she started, breaking the silence. “But he’s _alive_. We’re alive—we’ve made it through together, and if their sacrifice means anything to us, then we simply _must_ go on living. They didn’t give their lives so that we would stagger on like shadows, never feeling the sun or the wind or anything they gave up for us.” She clambered to her feet, taking a moment to brush herself off. She leaned over and laid a hand against Edward’s memorial, taking a moment for herself.

“Goodbye, Lieutenant,” she said, quietly. “Rest peacefully— and know you are missed.” She turned to Thomas, offering a hand.

“I’m having lunch with Major Clarkson this afternoon. Would you care to join us?”

Thomas hesitated, looking at her proffered hand. “I don’t mean to be rude, mum, but I—I’d like to stay a little longer here.”

She smiled at him again. “I think that’s perfectly marvelous. But in that, case, I’ll be off—“ she turned, giving him a last look. “Will you think about what I said?”

Thomas looked up from fumbling in his pocket for another cigarette. “I’ll _think_ about it,” he agreed, only somewhat reluctantly. This seemed to satisfy her.

“Good. Have a lovely afternoon, Sergeant.”

She left, and the graveyard was quiet once again.


End file.
